Spectator's Sport
by Eilonwy Grace
Summary: An AU story that imagines what Katniss' life might have been like had not Prim been reaped in the 74th games. What would Peeta's games have looked like without Katniss? Would the Quarter Quell still have unfolded the same way?
1. Chapter 1

_This starts from the end of the first chapter of The Hunger Games. Because I'm assuming we've all read the book, I've cut out some parts that would otherwise be included – namely, I didn't go into the whole long story about Peeta and the bread because it would pretty much be word for word from the actual book. So just sort of imagine it for yourself after the line, "You don't forget the face of the person who was your last hope." :)_

* * *

_Not me, not me, please not me…_

"Jessamine Taney."

It's not me.

A small murmur passes through the crowd as Effie Trinket's ostentatious tone echoes through the town square. At first, I am too relieved to pay much attention to the dark-haired girl now making her way to the platform. Prim is safe. I am safe. We are together… for another year at least.

Gale catches my eye and nods. I return the nod, but the tension starts building in my stomach once more. There are still the boys' names to be drawn. Will the odds continue in my favor?

For the first time, I really turn my attention to the front, where Jessamine Taney stands on unsteady legs. She is a tiny Seam girl with thinning black hair, bluish bags under her eyes, and twig-like limbs that stick out from her drab, over-patched dress at odd angles, giving her the appearance of a trembling grasshopper. I've seen her at school, of course, but never spoken to her. She's maybe a year older than Prim, but so malnourished that she looks younger. As I look at her, so small against the vastness of the stage, so somber beside Effie Trinket's effusive pinkness, for the first time I register some emotion beyond sheer relief. Anger. Sorrow. This is the girl who will die so that Prim doesn't have to. So that _I _don't have to…

For another year, at least.

The click clack of Effie Trinket's tall heels against the wooden platform draws my attention to the bowl containing the boys' names, which she is now reaching into. My breath catches and I close my eyes.

_Not Gale._ I plead. _Not Gale and not Vick and not Rory. Please not Gale._

"Peeta Mellark."

It takes a moment for the name to sink in. Then there is a rustle as the boys part to allow a tall, blonde-haired boy to approach the platform. The baker's son. Not a friend, not someone I've ever talked to. But a lump forms in my throat as I watch him take his place beside Jessamine Taney on stage.

You don't forget the face of the person who was your last hope.

The difference between Peeta Mellark and Jessamine Taney is stark. Peeta lives in town and has always had enough to eat; he is tall and broad-shouldered, towering over tiny Jessamine. He always does well in school wrestling competitions, and I've seen him lift hundred pound bags of flour as easily as nothing. If anyone from District 12 stands a chance, he does. And even if he dies, which he probably will, what does it matter to me? I'm safe, Prim is safe. For another year, at least.

My hands clench into tight fists at my side. What does it matter? It matters that he will have died with me still owing him. With me never even giving him a thank you for saving my life, the lives of my family. It's a debt that will now always go unpaid. It's a fate that he didn't deserve.

Effie Trinket says a few more things, but I'm now staring blandly ahead, looking at Jessamine and Peeta but beyond them, too, as though I can see the long line of past tributes behind them. How many tributes have stood on that platform, sent to their deaths in the arena? How far does the line stretch into the future? How many more will there be?

Gale is safe. At eighteen, this was his last reaping. But his brothers and sister? Prim? Me? We're safe this year, and this year alone. Our perceived safety extends no further than next year, the next reaping.

Slowly I become aware that Peeta Mellark's gaze is fixed in my direction. It was like that in school sometimes – I'd turn to find him looking at me, sort of like he wanted to say something, but he'd always just drop his gaze and turn quickly away. He doesn't turn away now – where else would he go? He just keeps looking at me, and the sorrow and resignation in his eyes is obvious even from my distance.

It makes me angry. _You have a chance_, I want to shout. _You're strong and good. So you don't have the training of the Careers. That doesn't mean there's no hope for you. You've got to fight. You've got to come back alive._

I don't know if he gets my message, or if I'm imagining a new determinedness in the set of his jaw. I force myself to keep looking at him, to burn my senseless hope into his sorrowing eyes. For once, he does not turn away.

And then it's over. Effie Trinket places a well-manicured hand on Peeta's shoulder to prod him along, and then both he and Jessamine Taney are gone.

Despite my momentary burst of anger, I am certain that I will never see either of them in District 12 again.

* * *

At supper, my mother's hands keep shaking. She can hardly use her fork, almost spills her tea over her lap. I can't help thinking, it's a good thing that I wasn't reaped. What would my mother and Prim have done without me? Gale would have seen to it that they had enough food, but what if my mother had withdrawn from the world again, like she did after my father died? What would have happened to Prim then?

As for Prim, her relief is palpable. She keeps looking at me, and then down at her hands, as though she cannot believe that we are both there, together, "safe." Prim has the biggest heart of anyone I know, and I know that there will be tears later as we're forced to watch our district tributes die… but that relief. Gale says it's one of the cruelest cards that the Capitol has up its sleeve. This relief, that my neighbor's misfortune is not my own. Even Prim is not immune.

I push away my unfinished food and stand. Prim looks at me, her eyes wide.

"I'm all right," I tell her, stooping over to kiss the top of her golden head. "Just tired. Eat the rest of my food yourself. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay, good night," she says, her voice small.

My mother sets her trembling tea cup on the table and looks at me with faded blue eyes. "Sleep well, Katniss."

She holds my gaze for a long moment, and I can feel myself softening just a little. How frightened was she today, for Prim, for me? It's hard for me to forgive her abandonment after my father's death, to believe that she even loves me. But she does, in her own way. Loves me, loves Prim.

For a split second, I see myself in her place, helpless as I hopelessly wait for the sound of the name that signifies my child's doom. I harden again. This is why I will never have children. This is why no one should ever have children. There would be no Games if there were no people to play them.

"All right," I say, and turn away.

Sleep, however, is hard to come by. Each time I close my eyes, I am haunted by a new pair of eyes. Jessamine Taney's. Peeta Mellark's. The girl from District 11, from the recap of all the reapings we were forced to watch, the one who looks so much like Prim. The slate gray eyes of my unborn children… relentless, despairing, full of rage.

Effie Trinket's voice resounds in my mind. "Primrose Everdeen. Come forward, Primrose Everdeen, and take your place for this great honor."

And then Gale's voice, quiet, somber, that perplexing conversation from this morning. "We could do it, you know… Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it."

The invitation lingers, echoing down the caverns of memory… his voice so sweet, his resolution so sure… but it is the sorrowful eyes of Peeta Mellark that are the last thing I see, before I finally fall into a fitful sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Gale and I meet in the woods early the next morning. It has become our routine. Lay traps before school, come back afterwards to empty them and do some hunting. Maybe it's not much, but those hours spent with him in the woods just might be the only times I feel really happy.

Even now, feeling like I do, my sleeplessness hanging over me like a weight, everything becomes just a little bit better as soon as I slip under the fence and disappear into the trees. With each step deeper into the woods, the weight lessons, and when I see Gale, a dark silhouette against the pre-dawn grayness of the sky, a wave of relief washes over me so powerful that it nearly doubles me over.

That relief again. Relief bought at the expense of Jessamine Taney, of Peeta Mellark. Gale and I are here because they are now on a train speeding towards the capitol, towards their deaths. Our relief at the expense of theirs.

Gale must hear me, because he rises and turns in my direction.

"Hey, Catnip," he says, and one look at his faces pushes the guilt of relief once more from my mind. Gale is safe, or as safe as anyone is in District 12. He has passed out of the reach of the reaping, and I will never have to worry about him being taken away from me in that way again.

Before I know what I am doing, I find myself being propelled forward and flinging myself into his arms. He stiffens in momentary surprise before wrapping his arms tightly around me. He smells fresh and woodsy, his lean body strong and steady, his shaggy head bent protectively over mine, as if he will allow nothing from the outside world to get at me from within the circle of his arms.

I never want to let go, and it is a long time before he kisses me on the top of my head, just like I do with Prim, and pulls away.

"I'm glad you're okay, too," he says.

"We made it through another year," I say, fiddling with my bow to hide my embarrassment.

"Only fourteen more to go." He turns away, his voice as dark as the surrounding shadows.

I stand, confused, remembering again his words from yesterday. The words about leaving, running away. At the time I… I didn't know what I thought. But now? Maybe he was right. Maybe we could do it, even with all the kids in tow. Maybe we should. Maybe we owe it to them.

But before I can speak, he turns back to me. "You ready to lay some traps?"

I nod, and the morning slips back into the ordinary, the routine. Gale by my side, the two of us working together as fluidly as one person. There is no one else like Gale in the world for me. A sharp pain pierces me at the thought of how close I came to losing him yesterday. Just random chance, Effie Trinket reaching for one slip of paper instead of another. What would I do without him?

Relief again. Persistent, cruel, encompassing relief.

* * *

The atmosphere at school is somber. Jessamine Taney's few friends look too hungry and tired to display any great show of grief, in any case, that's not how we do things in the Seam. But Peeta Mellark was popular, and there are not a few red and baggy eyes among the Town kids who comprised his main group of friends.

That's District 12 for you. We've only had one victor in the entire history of the Games, that sot Haymitch Abernathy. Maybe some districts view sending off the tributes as cause for hope, expectancy. In District 12, it's just the beginning of the mourning.

At lunch, Madge Undersee slips into the seat beside me. We never talk very much, but today I'm especially glad for her presence next to me. Since Gale and Prim are in different grades, I don't see them very much at school. But this is the sort of day that it's nice to have someone by your side.

We eat silently, both watching the table across the way, around which a large group of Town kids have congregated. Their conversation is quiet, subdued, and one golden haired girl more than once breaks out in tears.

"Meggin Wardell," Madge explains. "She had this thing for him. For Peeta."

"Oh," I say, looking down at the table in inexplicable embarrassment. Like I said, Peeta was well-liked, and I guess he was handsome, in a kind of Town way. I never saw him really chase after any girls, but I guess it makes sense that a lot of girls might like him. I sneak another glance at Meggin Wardell, wondering what sort of relationship she and Peeta had before his reaping.

"He was really nice about it, but he never returned her interest," Madge continues, her voice dispassionate but with an undercurrent of something… curiosity, perhaps?

"Oh," I say again, looking at Meggin Wardell again, a tiny poke of irrational relief in the back of my mind. What do I care, who this dead boy once loved? It has nothing to do with me. Nothing at all.

"I think he was interested in someone else," Madge says, and there's something about the tone of her voice as she says it that makes me look at her sharply. But her face is unemotional, empty, uninterested in anything but finishing the last bite of her thin sandwich.

Before I can decide if I want to ask her anything more, the teacher comes out to gather us and it's time to go back to class.


	3. Chapter 3

Jessamine Taney gets a training score of 2. This is an improvement from last year, when 2 was the combined score of both tributes from District 12. Peeta Mellark gets an 8.

"Maybe we have a chance this year," I overhear an old man tell Mrs. Mellark as we gather in the town square for the mandatory viewing of the interviews. The old man probably meant it to be encouraging, but Mrs. Mellark just purses her lips, like the man's words reek. I want to hate her for this, for not believing in her own son, but part of me also wonders if it might not be asking too much of her, that she allow room for any sort of hope of his return. Once you let yourself begin to hope… well, it just makes it hurt more, in the end.

Unlike the Reaping, the Peacekeepers don't enforce any particular organizational system for the mandatory viewings. We are free to stand wherever we want, just as long as we keep standing, just as long as we keep silent. I find Prim and my mother standing with the Hawthornes near the back. I slip in between Prim and Gale, blushing a little as Gale's hand accidentally brushes mine. What is with me lately? He looks down, his slate gray eyes softening a little as they consider me.

"Fancy meeting you here," he says, the corners of his lips twisting sardonically upwards.

"A startling coincidence," I agree, very aware of his hand, only an inch away from mine. I put my hands on Prim's shoulders, where it is safer.

"Quiet!" yells a Peacekeeper, glaring in our general direction. We fall silent. The interviews are about to begin.

They are predictable enough. The tributes from Districts 1 and 2 are well-fed and muscular; they have obviously been preparing for this moment their whole lives. One of them, the boy from 1, talks about his excitement to be in the arena with obvious relish. And then there are the others. A wiry, intelligent looking girl from 5, a crippled boy from 10. The girl from District 11, the one that I especially noticed during the Reaping recap. Her name is Rue, and as she talks with Caesar Flickerman she stands on her tiptoes, like a graceful bird just about to take flight.

A lump grows in my throat and I tighten my grip on Prim's shoulders. I am glad when her interview is over.

Jessamine Taney's interview is uneventful. She manages to answer all of Caesar Flickerman's questions with only minimal quaking and trembling, but a moment after she leaves the stage I realize that I don't remember a thing she said, and I doubt that the sponsors will, either. I feel Gale tense beside me, and although he knew Jessamine even less than I did, I know that he is doing his best to suppress his rage at the thought of her eventual death. It's one thing if the tribute stands a fighting chance. But to take a quavering child and watch her die…

It is almost a relief when Peeta Mellark comes on screen. This, at least, is someone who stands the ghost of a chance. A training score of 8 is very respectable. And he looks well enough, despite the ridiculous suit that he's been forced into. His skin glows, the very picture of youth and health, and his blonde curls are styled in very dapper fashion.

He does surprisingly well in the interview. He has a sort of charm that plays to the audience very well, a certain charisma in his smile. He and Caesar exchange a sort of funny bit about Capitol showers that ends up with them both smelling one another. The audience howls, eating it up.

"So Peeta," Caesar says, after the laughter has died away. "Tell me. Is there a special girl back home?"

For the first time, Peeta looks a little uncomfortable up on screen. "No. No, not really."

"No? I don't believe it for a second, look at that face! Handsome man like you! Peeta. Tell me."

"Well, there, uh. There is this one girl that I've had a crush on forever."

"Ah, I knew it," says Caesar, leaning forward as though this crush were the most interesting and important thing in all of Panem. "What is she like? A real beauty, I'll bet."

Peeta's eyes flick to the camera; for one irrational moment it is almost as though, across thousands of miles, our eyes meet. "Yeah, she's pretty. Strong, too. She's the bravest person I've ever met. And when she sings, wouldn't you know it but the very birds stop to listen."

"Well, I'll tell you what, Peeta," says Ceasar, his voice taking on a fatherly tone. "You go out there, and you win this thing, and show her that you've got some bravery of your own. When you get back, she'll have to go out with you."

"Yeah," says Peeta, not looking very hopeful. "Maybe."

"Give it more than a maybe!" crows Caesar, clapping Peeta jovially on the back as he leaves the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, Peeta Mellark! And those are the tributes of the 74th Hunger Games!"

He says a few more closing remarks, and then, it's over. The screen goes black. We are free to go home.

"Interesting show," says Gale, looking suspiciously back and forth between my mother and I. My mother's face has gone pale and her hands are trembling. I will myself to look unaffected, but in reality I am feeling just as shaken as my mother. That bit about the birds stopping to listen… well, that's something that was true of my father. When he sang, the birds really did stop to listen.

I don't know who Peeta was talking about. I know that I haven't sung since my father's death, and even before then I'm sure I've never sung in Peeta's presence. And it's not like the birds would stop to listen to me, anyhow. But still, it's weird that he would say something like that. It's like he somehow blundered into something very private and precious to me, and tramped all over it in his fancy Capitol shoes for the entertainment of the gawking Capitol masses.

I no longer feel any pity for Peeta Mellark. Instead, I am angry at him, even as I'm aware it's not fair to fault him for using those words. He didn't know my father. He didn't know how his words would affect me. He probably just thought he was being poetic, that he had found a nice way to describe the loveliness of Meggin Wardell, or whichever Town girl it was that he had this crush on.

"I don't know," I say at last. "I thought it was pretty boring, myself."

Gale looks at me again, the unspoken question in his narrowed eyes. I flush and turn away. Why is Gale making such a big deal about it? I don't know who Peeta Mellark was talking about, and I don't care. The way Gale is looking at me, though, you'd think he was… well, _jealous_.

The thought makes my stomach do a strange little flip-flop. Gale, jealous? That would mean…

"Come on, Prim," I say. "We should be getting back home."

"All right," agrees Prim, taking my mother's hand. She, too, looks a little unsettled. "Good night, everyone."

The Hawthornes return the farewell, and the three of us depart. I feel Gale's eyes watching me as we weave our way through the crowd, but when I turn around, he and his family have already gone.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks, Heslen, for your encouraging review, and to everyone who has liked and followed this story so far! :)_

* * *

The Games don't change District 12 much. We are still expected to go to school, to go to the mines. The Hob still does business, and there's still game in the woods. Life goes on pretty much as normal, excepting the two hours every evening we are forced into the town square to watch the day's recap.

It does cut into our hunting time, a bit. We no longer have as long outside the fence in the evenings, but apart from the fact that this time has to be spent watching the Games, I don't mind much. I'm still not sure what to make of Gale's behavior after Peeta's interview, and even less sure what I think about it. Gale knows how I feel, about not wanting to get married. And how can he feel any different, standing beside me, watching the children of Panem slaughter one another for the pleasure of the Capitol?

Jessamine Taney doesn't make it through the first twenty-four hours. To be honest, this was longer than anyone expected that she would. The arena this year is a forest, very similar to District 12, in a way. As soon as the horns sound and the tributes leap off their podiums, both Jessamine and Peeta take off for the woods.

I guess Haymitch Abernathy instructed them to find water, because that's the first thing Peeta does. He sets a lucky course and finds the river pretty quickly. His first night in the Games is spent in a tiny cave, shivering but concealed from the pack of roving Careers.

Jessamine falls in with a girl from another district, no more suited to the Games than she is. The two of them are killed after the Careers spot the smoke from their campfire in the night sky. That campfire wasn't the brightest move in the history of the games, but in a way it's kind of a mercy to have it over and done with so fast. There was never any hope that she would actually win, and we've all seen tributes die deaths far worse and more painful than hers.

The Games continue. For awhile, there is so much action going on between the other tributes that the Gamemakers almost seem to forget about Peeta, who has planted himself in his cave with apparently no intention of leaving. I wonder if this, too, is a piece of advice from Haymitch Abernathy – to just wait until everyone else is finished killing one another, and then emerge the victor? But, of course, the Gamemakers cannot allow this to happen. They engineer a flood that forces Peeta out from his cave at the same time that the Careers happen to be passing.

The Careers this year are a vicious bunch, especially the tributes from 2. The girl from 2 has a knack with knives, and her first throw hits Peeta's leg only because one of the other Careers stumbled over a root in the rising water and tripped her up a little. When she picks herself up, it's clear that she's mad and ready for blood. In District 12, tense silence falls over the crowd and Prim covers her eyes, sure that this is going to be the end for Peeta Mellark.

_Not to her_, I find myself thinking, my jaw clenched so tightly in hurts. If only there was a way to sear this message across the miles into his brain. _You can't lose to her. You can't._

And then the miracle happens. Just as the girl from 2 is about to release the knife, something large and heavy falls from overhead. The camera shoots upward – Rue, the girl tribute from District 11. Somehow or other she has managed to dislodge a hive of – is it tracker jackers? – from its height. The creatures swarm over the Careers, inflicting tortuous stings. The girl from District 1 gets the worst of it, and she is already dead by the time that the others finally have the sense to duck under the still rising water. The girl from 4 and the tributes from 2 manage to make it away. The boy from 1 never emerges from the river depths.

Two cannons, two tributes down.

Peeta has taken advantage of the melee to flee as quickly as his injured leg can carry him. He was far enough away from the Careers to escape the fury of the tracker jackers and now nothing is stopping him from getting as much distance as he can before finding another hidden spot to wait out the games.

But he doesn't do that. He gets far enough away to ensure that neither the Careers nor the tracker jackers are following him, then stops and doubles back around. I have no idea what he is doing or why he would possibly be so stupid – until I see her. On a low branch of a tree, slumped against the trunk, muttering nonsense with blue-tinged lips. Rue. It was brilliant of her to come up with the tracker jacker idea, but she did not escape without a price. Ghastly lumps bulge out of her neck, her arms. She is so small that it's a wonder so many stings did not kill her outright.

Is this what Peeta came back for? To finish her off? District 12 watches with bated breath as he stands completely still, watching. He has the knife that the girl from 2 threw at him. He could do it. And at this point, it would probably be the kindest thing to do. Tracker jacker poison does horrible things to a person; it's certain that Rue is suffering greatly.

But Peeta doesn't kill her. Instead, with eyes so soft and sad it makes me want to cry and scream at the same time, he gently reaches out for her and pulls her down into his arms. And then, cradling her like a little baby, Peeta and the girl from 11 disappear into the surrounding forest.


	5. Chapter 5

Tense silence hangs in the air long after the screen goes black. It follows us to our homes and hovers over us in our sleep, and when the sun rises the next morning, we are all still waiting with bated breath to see what the evening's recap will reveal about the fate of Peeta Mellark.

His fate, and Rue's. I can't pretend that I am entirely indifferent to her. Maybe it's because she reminds me so much of Prim. Maybe it's because she saved Peeta's life. Or maybe it's just because of the sly little smile the camera caught as she sent the tracker jacker nest plummeting down on the heads of the Careers. I don't know what it is exactly. But I'm glad that Peeta didn't kill her when he could have.

"There's only one victor," Gale reminds me, his face stony as we crawl under the fence with our contraband collection of wild game. "I don't know what Mellark is thinking."

"Neither do I," I admit. I don't admit that this ever so slightly intrigues me. I'm not sure what I think of Peeta Mellark , if I dislike him or admire him or pity him. In any case, it doesn't matter. Even on the off chance that he doesn't die, it's not like we would be friends if he came back to District 12.

Gale is looking at me, his eyes narrowed as though he can read my thoughts. I blush; he scowls. Confused, I turn away to brush the dirt off of my clothes.

"Did you know him, Katniss?" he asks.

"Know who?"

"Peeta Mellark."

"No." My voice is sharper than I intended, but when I look at Gale his face has lost its scowl. His expression is searching, his gray eyes intense. "I've never spoken to him in my life."

Gale reaches out to wipe some dirt off my cheek, his rough, calloused hands surprisingly gentle against my skin. My stomach does another flip-flop at his unexpected closeness, and my breathing goes a bit shallow.

"Good," he says, shoulders his share of the game, and leaves.

* * *

When we catch up with Peeta again, he and Rue are hidden in a shallow dale at the edge of a meadow. Rue is still out of it, still muttering incoherently in her sleep, but somehow Peeta knows the right herb to use to treat the stings. He tends to her gently as she sleeps; does his best to tend to his own wound, which looks well on the way to being infected. They are not bothered by the Careers or any other tributes – perhaps the Gamemakers, too, are curious to know what Peeta Mellark has up his sleeve.

Peeta is not there when Rue finally awakes. He has gone scavenging for food, the lack of which has started to become a serious problem. If it were Gale or I in the arena, we could feed ourselves with little problem, but Peeta has lived his entire life within the confines of the fence. He still has 2's knife, but is so loud as he tramps through the underbrush that he's probably scaring off all the animals within a mile radius.

So far he has managed to eek by on roots and berries, but his wound is taking its toll and it's obvious that his strength is waning. It's possible that he might still receive food or even medicine from the sponsors, but so far that hasn't happened. He wouldn't be the first tribute to die of starvation in the arena.

Even though Rue is groggy when she awakes, she's quick. It takes only a few minutes for her to come to her senses, to raid the small collection of roots that Peeta has piled up. She's just sneaking out of the dale when she runs smack dab into Peeta, who for once has managed a modicum of stealth.

"So you're awake," he says, stepping by to let her pass, and sinking wearily into the grass beyond her.

Rue looks at him cautiously, like a squirrel ready to bolt at the slightest wrong move. "I guess I have you to thank for it?"

Peeta shrugs. "Turn about's fair play. You saved me."

That wry little smile of hers plays at the corners of her lips. "I didn't do it for you. I just wanted to get the Careers."

"Well, you got them."

"Really?" She sinks down into the grass by Peeta's feet. "They're all gone?"

"Not all of them. The tributes from 2 are still alive, so's the girl from 4. But the tributes from 1 are both gone, thanks to you."

Rue glances up at the sky, even though it's still daylight and the pictures of the fallen won't be projected for several more hours. "Anyone else… who else is left?"

Peeta ticks off the numbers on his fingers. "The tributes from 2. The boy from 3. The girls from 4 and 5. The boy from 10. Your district partner. Me. You."

She lets out a long breath. "Nine."

"Nine," Peeta agrees.

They sit in silence for a long moment, the only sound the singing of birds and the breeze rustling through the trees. "So what're you gonna do next?" Rue asks at last.

Peeta shrugs. "Guess I'll figure it out when I come to it. Want something to eat?"

Rue looks at the berries he holds in his outstretched hands. Her face is still aloof, cautious, but you can tell that she's desperately hoping Peeta's trustworthy, that he's good. This, however, is the Hunger Games, where there's no one trustworthy, where goodness doesn't exist. Only expediency, only need. But right now this is what she needs. "Thanks," she says, reaching out her hands. Peeta pours the berries in. "This all you been eating?"

He nods. "This isn't my element at all. Back home, I'm a baker. If there were bags of flour and ovens laying around, you bet I could feed us both with no worries. But there's not. So I eat berries."

"Better than nothing," says Rue, examining the berries closely before popping them into her mouth. "These are all right. But you better be careful. I saw some nightlock here earlier. That'll kill you before it even gets down your throat."

As if to underscore her words, a cannon goes off. Rue and Peeta look at one another grimly for a long minute.

"Eight," she whispers at last.

"It's almost dark," says Peeta. "Stay with me one more night, and in the morning we can both be on our way. It's safer with someone standing watch while the other one sleeps."

She hesitates. "All right. You any good with trees?"

He's not, but somehow between the two of them they manage to find a spot behind a fallen tree that offers them a little more concealment and also some block from the wind.

"It gets cold at night," Peeta says. "But I have the sleeping bag I took from the girl from district 1's bag. Glimmer, I think her name was. You can use it."

"What about you?"

He shrugs. "You're smaller."

She hesitates only a fraction of a second before coming to sit by his side. "We can share it, maybe."

Peeta doesn't resist her offer. "What I could really use is something to eat, something more than these berries."

As if on cue, there is a clink from behind. Rue, armed with Peeta's knife, scurries over the fallen tree and returns a moment later with a little silver parachute and a wide smile. "It's from my district," she says, settling back beside him as though he was an older brother that she had known all her life. "Bread. It's still warm."

She glances up into the trees. "Thank you." Her whispered voice is small and child-like, and there are tears in her eyes as she turns back to Peeta. "Here. Have a piece."

He accepts, turning the small crescent over and over again in his hands. "It's lovely. Thank you." He glances up at the trees, at the same spot that Rue only moments earlier addressed. "Thank you."

The camera abruptly cuts away, and images of blood and gore instead fill our screen. The Careers have caught up with the boy from 10. And it's not pretty.

It is not until after the anthem has played and the pictures of the fallen are projected across the screen that we catch up with Peeta and Rue again. They are still huddled against the fallen log, still wrapped in the sleeping bag. Peeta's arm wraps around her thin frame, and her head rests on his shoulder. I don't know what it is, but looking at the two of them like that I feel a pang of longing so intense it nearly doubles me over. For the moment she looks just like an ordinary little girl, safe and secure in her father's arms. Tears prickle my eyes as I remember what exactly that was like. It has been so long, so long since he's been gone…

Rue is talking, asking Peeta about himself, about the girl he mentioned during the interview.

"Does she know that you love her?" she asks.

"Probably not," he answers. "I think she's interested in someone else."

"You should tell her," Rue says decidedly. "That's not the sort of thing you should leave unspoken."

Peeta chuckles sadly. "Maybe not."

"Definitely not!" Rue insists. "Tell her now. Girl from District 12… come on, finish it."

He smiles and glances up at the camera. "Sleep well," he whispers.

And once more, the screen goes black.


	6. Chapter 6

Peeta Mellark has made it to the final eight, and the next morning the camera crews start rolling in. They do this every year, come interview the family and friends of the living tributes. It's just that they've never come to District 12, not in my memory at least. There are some people old enough to remember the last time, when Haymitch Abernathy won the Games, but they're not talking about it.

There's plenty to talk about, however, without bringing up the past. The schoolyard is buzzing with chatter, especially when one of the camera crews pulls a few of the Town kids out of class to conduct interviews.

"What was it like?" I ask Madge during lunch. She's a loner like me, but I guess being the daughter of the Mayor gets you a few privileges, like being televised across the country on the subject of a random boy with a death mark.

She shrugs. "Short. I didn't have anything to say."

I glance over at the next table, where a gaggle of Town girls are gathered around Calla Wyler, the girl rumored to be the one that Peeta mentioned in his interview. She's known for having a nice voice and she's very pretty, soft and crumbly and sweet just like the iced cookies that Prim always likes looking at in the bakery window. She spent nearly half an hour with the camera crews.

"She never looked twice at Peeta until he got reaped," sniffs Madge. "But now it's all darling Peeta this, darling Peeta that. I wonder what he would think about it all."

"Maybe he'd like it," I say. "Maybe she really is the girl he was talking about."

"I don't believe it," she replies. She looks at Calla Wyler again, a look on her face like she would like to say something more – but then thinks the better of it. "Come on, we'd better get back to class."

I stand as well, feeling kind of awkward as I wait for her to gather her things. I've always liked Madge, I guess, but we've probably talked more since this Reaping than we have our whole lives. We're acting almost like actual friends, which is something that I don't think comes very naturally for either of us. I know that it doesn't for me.

But I follow her back into the school building anyway.

It's been a weird sort of day.

* * *

Snippets of the interviews air that evening. Calla Wyler, teary-eyed and touched at Peeta's devotion; Mr. and Mrs. Mellark, stoic and tight-lipped. The family and friends of the other tributes have also been interviewed. Rue's parents and young siblings. Her district partner's wizened grandmother. The girl from 2's father, a small, mousy looking man with a nervous twitch. Maybe she used to practice throwing knives at him.

I hate the interviews. Always. Because as much as they try to suppress it, there's always a glimmer of hope that begins bubbling up around this time. You can see it in their eyes. They can't bring themselves to say it just yet, but it's there, right underneath the surface. _Maybe, _their eyes can't help but say. _Maybe this will be the year. They've made it this far – maybe this time, it will be my child who comes home._

But like Gale said, there's only one victor. There always has been. Just one.

Peeta and Rue don't part in the morning like they planned. Peeta wakes up sweating and retching; he is obviously quite ill from the infection and it's not getting any better. No one would blame Rue if she up and left at this point, just like no one would have blamed him if he had left her to the mercy of the tracker jacker venom. But she doesn't leave. She sneaks down to the river to fill the water bottle, and spends most of the morning trying to get him to drink. Around noon, she decides to go looking for more food, since their meager supply has long been depleted.

She doesn't make it more than a few feet before she is discovered by the girl from 4. The Careers, secure in their fortress at the Cornucopia, are now splitting during the day to hunt down the remaining tributes. Rue, armed only with Peeta's knife, doesn't really stand a chance. She screams, probably to warn Peeta, to give him a chance to flee.

No one would have blamed him if he did just that. But he doesn't. When he hears her scream, he musters up what strength he has and launches himself at her attacker. He's bigger than the girl from 4, but she is uninjured and relatively well-fed, what with the stock of food the Careers are hoarding. It's a fierce match, but Peeta is an excellent wrestler. She is just about the plunge her knife into his chest when he manages to turn it around on her. A moment more of struggle. A cannon sounds.

But it is too late for Rue. 4's spear already did its work. Another cannon.

Peeta lies alone in the meadow.

For a minute, it's hard to tell whether or not he, too, was injured. I hold my breath, waiting for the sound of another cannon. But none comes. The birds just keep singing, the breeze continues to rustle through the leafy trees. Peeta, slowly, painfully, drags himself over to Rue, manages to pull himself up just long enough to push the dark hair out of her eyes. Then he collapses, weeping.

His sobs are painful to listen to. They recall dark nights, coal dust still swirling in the air, empty boots by the fireplace, a vacant spot at the table which will never again be filled. Dry, racking sobs that spring from a well so deep it seems as though they can never be depleted, will never cease. Agony. Pain. Loss. Despair.

Somehow my hand finds Gale's – or maybe his hand finds mine. I hold it tightly as Prim grips my other arm. These tears, we know. They are ours. Peeta cries not just for Rue, not just for himself. He cries for us all.

But somehow, Peeta finds the strength to once more pull himself up, to wipe the tears from his dirt-caked face. And then, he stands. His legs are weak and his pain is obvious. But he stands, and goes over the girl from District 4. And taking her by the shoulders, he drags her beside Rue, beside the girl that she killed.

The camera quickly cuts to the tributes from 2 meeting up to discuss the day's progress, but not before we catch the quickest glimpse of Peeta strewing flowers over the corpses of the two dead girls, lying side by side, the torn blossoms billowing in the breeze.


	7. Chapter 7

_Sorry it's taken me a bit to update! I was out of town for quite a while. Hope you like this chapter. :)_

* * *

Sleep does not come easily to me that night. Beside me, Prim snores gently, exhausted by the tears that ushered her into what I can only hope are pleasanter dreams than reality. I do not cry. My insides feel dry, like a barren desert under a thousand year old sun.

I knew it was unlikely that Rue would survive the Games. I know it is unlikely that Peeta will. He is injured and weak, and tomorrow's recap will surely bring news of his death. There are only four tributes left now, Peeta and the Careers from 2 and the boy from 11, Rue's district partner.

One of the tributes from 2 will win. Probably the girl with the knives. But what does it matter? Whoever wins, twenty-three people lost. What does it matter which is which?

The sun has not yet risen when I sneak out of the house, into the woods, but Gale is already waiting for me. I wonder if he slept, either.

"You're out early," he says, as I settle myself into the grass beside him.

"You, too."

"Yeah."

We sit together in silence, watching the first traces of dawn rise over the dark line of trees in the distance. From somewhere behind us, a mockingjay starts up a melancholy chant. I wonder who taught it the song that it sings.

"Are you cold?" Gale asks me after a while, scooting a little bit closer to rub my arms.

"I'm fine," I say, pulling away.

He sighs and sticks his scorned hands behind his head. "Yeah, I know."

My eyes narrow. "What does that mean?"

"It doesn't mean anything. You're fine. You don't need anything from anyone. I get it."

I stare at Gale, genuinely confused by his words. What is he talking about? It's true, I do pride myself on being self-reliant, but only because I have to be. If I waited around for others to give me what I needed, Prim and my mother would starve. Not to mention me.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say.

"Yeah," he agrees, closing his eyes and laying back into the long grass. "Sure."

I continue to glare at him, my eyebrows furrowing in anger. His words aren't even true. I do what I can to provide for myself, because I know that it's the only way to survive. But I wouldn't have made it this far on my own. I owe a lot to… well, a lot of people. And to him. Where would I be now without Gale, without his knowledge, without his support, without his friendship?

A lump rises to my throat as I wonder if he knows this. I've never told him. Why would I? I always thought he knew.

"What do you want?" I ask him.

He opens his eyes. "What do I want, Catnip? That's an awfully long list."

"Well," I snap, "what do you want from me?"

He sits up, his gray eyes intense as they pierce into mine. "I want you to stop shutting me out."

"Shutting you out? What are you talking about? I see you every day."

"That's not what I mean."

"Well, what do you mean?" My voice is sharper than I intended for it to be, but Gale doesn't flinch. He just keeps looking at me, his eyes gentle and sardonic and sad and angry and a million other irreconcilable things. When he puts his hand to my face, I try not to flinch, either.

"I love you, Katniss," he says.

Once when I was young, hunting with my father, I got a little too confident and climbed a little too high. When the branch cracked underneath me, I hurdled to the ground, miraculously escaping serious injury but with all the wind knocked out of me. It took more than two hours for my body to stop its mad trembling. It hadn't been the pain that had shaken me so much, but the surprise of the fall.

I feel a little bit like that now, like I'm lying stunned on the ground, with no air in my gasping lungs.

"How can you?" I demand, once I find my voice. "How can you even think of that, Gale? You live the same place I do, live the same life as me. You watch the same Games. How can you even think of something like that? You know what that sort of thing leads to. I don't want to bring children into a place like this. I _can't_."

My voice breaks as I remember Rue, taking her last ragged breaths in Peeta Mellark's arms. A boy who himself might be dying at this very minute.

Gale's face spasms in pain, and I know that he has struggled with the same thoughts, the same fears. Who hasn't? But when he speaks, his voice is controlled and steady.

"We've taken care of ourselves all these years, haven't we? Taken care of the kids, Prim and Rory and the rest. We've done all right. We'd keep the others safe." He pauses, his eyes intently searching my face, begging me to believe him. "And there's always the woods. We could make it, you and me, far away from this horrible place."

I pause, momentarily softened by the appeal in his voice. We _could _do it, he and I. What would that be like? To escape the confines of District 12, the tyranny of the Capitol, to be able to breathe easily, to live without fear?

"Impossible," I say, turning away from him.

"Katniss…"

I stand, wishing that I still didn't feel the warmth of his hand on my face, long for the comfort of his familiar body next to mine. But I know what I have to do. I've always known. We all have. Anyone who thinks they can do anything different is fooling themselves.

I turn and walk away, leaving him where he sits.


	8. Chapter 8

The atmosphere in the crowd, as we crowd into the town square, is different than I ever remember it being. Usually by this time in the Games, we are numb, we are quiet, we are in silent mourning for the girl and boy lying in boxes outside the Justice Building, set on display for the entire District to see. But this year, there is only one box. Only four tributes left in the Games, and only one box.

"He's not going to make it through the night," I hear someone mutter as I take my place beside Prim. Hazelle and the kids are standing nearby, but Gale is not there. My heart races as I wonder if he decided to leave on his own – but he wouldn't leave the kids, right?

"I wouldn't count him out," someone else whispers back, excitement and hope in their voice.

_Fool_, I think fiercely. That hope will lead you nowhere. Peeta Mellark is already dead. It's only moments before we see it for ourselves, before his death plays out before the whole of Panem. We can only hope that it's quick and merciful. But even that is asking a lot.

_Where _is Gale?

The anthem plays, and he is still not here. I clench my now sweaty hands to fists at my side. What will happen if he gets caught, skipping out on the mandatory viewing of the Games? It's never happened, to my memory, at least. Would they whip him? Hang him? Shoot him?

Ah, there he is. Relief floods through me as I catch sight of him, on the very edge of the crowd. He is slowly working his way to his family, face as hard as coal.

I snap my attention back to the screen, angered at my worry and relief. Gale is old enough to take care of himself. He's not my problem. If he wants to get himself whipped or hung… well, that's his prerogative.

The re-cap has started.

And Peeta Mellark is not dead.

Not yet, at least. He is still very weak from the infection; he barely stirs beneath the thin layer of leaves that have accumulated over him in the night. Elsewhere, the tributes from 2 have finally split to take on the last two from the outlying districts. The boy hunts down Rue's district partner, a muscular boy with a something familiar in his features, something that I can't quite name. All I know is that, if Peeta dies, this is the person that I want to win the Games.

The battle between the Career and the boy from 11 is fierce. It's in the middle of a tall field, the sky pouring down rain as they grapple in the mud, both so covered by grime that it's impossible to tell which one is which. One of them – I think it's the boy from 11 – gets a choking hold on the other, and it seems that the odds are going to be in his favor… when the Career pulls out a hidden knife. He plunges it into the other boy's chest, who in a last burst of mad energy twists his neck so severely it's a wonder it doesn't roll off.

When the cannon sounds, it reverberates across the sodden field, ten times, a hundred, becoming one with the distant thunder. When the sound at last recedes, all that is left is two dead boys, covered in grime, lying soaking in a ruined field.

It only leaves the girl from 2 and Peeta. When she hears the cannons, she lifts up her head, a grim satisfaction in her eyes. She is going to win, and she knows it. All she has to do is find Peeta, quickly and cleanly dispatch one of her knives, and it's all over.

I don't even hate her. I just want it to be over.

It takes her a bit of time to find him, which is almost ridiculous considering how poorly he has hidden himself. When she does find him, it's by accident. She trips over a root and lands, sprawling, across the place where he was hidden. The knife she was holding goes flying out her hand.

"Oof," says Peeta, dragging himself into a sitting position. "Watch where you're going, willya?"

Her eyes widen in fear as she measures the distance between herself and her knife. When Peeta doesn't move, she lunges, and in one quick moment has him in a headlock, the sharp end of the knife pointed towards his neck.

"Any last words, 12?" she snarls.

Peeta seems remarkably unfazed by his eminent death. He just sits there, his eyes seeking out a camera high in a tree, and I have a feeling that his next words are addressed not to the tribute about to kill him. "I won't do it. You don't own me."

The girl from 2 laughs, a bitter, caustic sound. "What are you talking about?"

"You don't have to, either." His voice is gentle, persuasive, but somehow I get the feeling he's not trying to persuade her in attempt to forestall his own death. "You didn't have to kill the little girl; you didn't have to kill any of them."

"Like hell I didn't," she growls, tightening her grip around him.

Peeta sighs. "Then just do it, will you?"

"With pleasure."

I shut my eyes tightly, not wanting to see it… but no cannon sounds, no triumphant anthem plays. I open my eyes slowly, to see the girl from 2 staring, wide-eyed, into the distance. There, on the very edge of the tree line, stands a grimy, muscular figure.

"Cato?" she whispers, both fear and unmistakable longing in her voice.

"For Rue," he says, and throws the spear.

This time, the sound of two cannons is unmistakable. The girl from 2 is dead, and so is the boy from 11, who with his dying breath avenged his district partner.

Peeta Mellark has won the Games.

* * *

For a moment, no one in District 12 can take it in. We all just stand there, dumbfounded, waiting for some forgotten tribute to jump out of the bushes, one last death to occur. None does. The hovercraft comes to collect Peeta, to carry him back to the Capitol as a hero.

No one in District 12 makes a sound. Not until the hovercraft has vanished far into the distance, leaving the tributes from 2 and 11 where they lay. Not until the final anthem has played, not until the screen goes black.

And then it starts.

Never, in my life, have I heard such shouting. The town square erupts into a jubilant cacophony of laughter, of cheering, of singing. _A son of District 12 is coming home_. Everyone is hugging everyone else; many people are crying. A crowd of people gather around Mr. and Mrs. Mellark, who look shocked, incapable of understanding that this boy that they had given up as dead will be returned to them.

From somewhere, someone pulls out a fiddle, and we start an impromptu dance, right there, in the town square. The Peacekeepers don't protest. They seem as shocked as everyone else, and almost as pleased.

And later that night, when Gale sees me home and kisses me in the shadows of my rickety front porch, I am still too drunk on the victory of Peeta Mellark to do anything but kiss him back.


	9. Chapter 9

_Thanks everyone for reading so far! My plan is to continue this at least to the end of Catching Fire, maybe into Mockingjay. So be on the look-out for more chapters!_

* * *

Life doesn't really change that much. Peeta Mellark returns home, his train pulling into the station one dusky summer evening. We are all there to meet him, everyone in District 12, because we're required to be. Only his family, however, gets to personally greet him, to stand beside him as the reporters conduct their final interviews.

As part of the interviews, they bring out Calla Wyler, who throws herself into his arms, sniffling about how much she missed him and how very much she loves him. I am too far away to see his face as he wraps his arms around her, but close enough to see Madge roll her eyes at me and pretend to vomit. I grin back at her, even as the reporters give a collective sigh at the romance of the moment.

"I'm pretty sure that came as a surprise," I mutter to Gale, standing by my side.

Gale grins, too. "I'll bet."

I don't know if I'm making a mistake, letting my relationship with Gale change the way that it has. I woke up the morning after our kiss with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and by noon had worked out a long speech, explaining why it was such a mistake and why we could never be together.

My resolve lasted about as long as it took to get to our meeting spot. He was waiting for me, as usual, and as I sunk down into my normal spot beside him I was washed over by a wave of… I don't know what. All I knew was that I didn't want to leave his side, not ever again.

After all, we lived in a world where anything was possible. Where Peeta Mellark had won the Hunger Games. In a world like that, maybe the two of us stood a chance. And there was always the woods. We could disappear at a moment's notice. In a world like this, maybe we could even survive.

Gale's hand now clasps mine, our fingers intertwined in a way both familiar and strange. I hold on to his hand tightly, as though my strength alone can keep it from ever being torn from me.

Peeta Mellark at long last extracts himself from Calla Wyler's clinging, tear-stained arms. He turns to the crowd, staring in my general direction, and I finally get a good look at his face. It's ashen and empty, incongruous with the general atmosphere of joviality, and something in it strikes me as ominous and terrifying. I tighten my grip on Gale's hand and Peeta Mellark turns away, to address another question from a reporter.

And then the questions are over, and the crowd disperses.

Life continues, pretty much as normal.


	10. Chapter 10

I read my first love letter in our spot, lying beside the grass worn flat by years of Gale sitting on it. The paper is smudged with coal dust, and my throat constricts as I think of him, down in the mines that killed his father and mine. I can't reconcile the idea of my wild Gale, only at home amongst the trees and rocks of our wood, with the narrow, cramped shafts under the earth, filled with toxic air and darkness.

But he does what he has to do, to feed his family. To make sure his brothers and sister never have to take the tesserae. To protect them from the Capitol and their Games, as much as he can. The same as I'd do for Prim.

_Catnip_, he writes. _We have a moment for lunch and since I wouldn't be doing anything else but thinking of you, anyway, I decided I might as well write you, best I could. Have I told you today that I love you? That you are nearly the only thing that keeps me sane down here, the thought of you in our woods, like the thought of spring in the midst of endless, hard winter? Someday that winter will end – someday what is true between us when your hand is in mine, your warmth in my arms, will be true in every aspect of our existence together, and we will be free. Free from these mines! What a thought! But the freedom I find in your eyes begs me to believe it. We are being called back. Zane will deliver this to you at school. Yours, Gale._

I close my eyes, hoping that he is all right. And then, since just sitting and hoping isn't accomplishing anything, I rise to check the snares. Since Gale went into the mines a few months ago, I have borne the brunt of the food production for both of our families. Gale and I still hunt together on Sundays, and I've begun to take Rory out once or twice a week, to show him the ropes and train him for… well, for a possible future in which the responsibility might fall to him, anyhow. Neither Gale nor I have ever said that out loud, though. I don't think Rory even suspects, although Hazelle might.

The snares have done their work, and I have quite a load to carry back to the Hob. It's a good trading day, and I'm feeling satisfied as I leave the black market, with only one or two smaller game that I'll have no trouble trading elsewhere. I pause, wondering where to go first, when I remember that I haven't been to the baker's in quite some time. I remember Gale telling me that Mr. Mellark had recently asked after my squirrels. It's as good a place to go as any.

As soon as I get to the bakery, however, I can tell that something is not right. The door is open a crack and there's an ominous silence emanating from inside. Usually the bakery is filled with bustle and chatter, at least when Mrs. Mellark isn't there. And if she is there, there's no way that a stickler for order like her would let the doors hang open like this.

"Hello?" I ask, pushing open the door and stepping cautiously inside. I wish I still had my bow and arrow on me.

No one answers, so I take a step deeper into the room. "Mr. Mellark?" I call. "Are you there?"

The smell of burning bread fills the air; thick smoke is beginning to pour out of the oven. I set the squirrels down on the floor and hurry over to free the bread from its fiery prison, before it succeeds in burning the whole place down. I'm so focused on getting to the oven that I don't watch where I'm stepping, and the next thing I know, I'm sprawled out across the floor, Mr. Mellark at my feet.

"Mr. Mellark!" I exclaim, picking myself up and scurrying to his side. One glance, however, tells me that I'm much too late. His open eyes are glassy; the wound in his chest is gaping.

I don't remember if I scream. I remember my throat burning, but I'm not sure if the cry ever makes it out my lips. The first thing I think about, once I can properly think, is Peeta. I'm on my feet and out the door before I even really comprehend where I'm going. The Victor's Village.

I've never been there before. It's only for the victors of the Hunger Games, meaning that before this year the only occupied house in the whole place was Haymitch Abernathy's. I don't even know which house is Peeta's. I just run to the first house I see and bang on the door like mad. Peeta answers, his eyes wide as he takes me in, doubled over and gasping for breath, my hair flying out of its braid.

"It's your – it's your dad," I somehow manage.

Peeta doesn't say anything, just takes off running for the bakery. Haymitch, who had also been inside, follows. The older man is much slower and much more out of shape, and he is wheezing something fierce by the time the two of us finally make it back to the bakery ourselves.

Peeta is kneeling on the ground beside his father, his face in his hands. For a moment I think he's crying, but when he raises his head, his eyes are dry.

"He's dead," is all he says, his voice dull and empty.

Haymitch collapses against a wall, clutching the stitch in his side as he fights to gain control of his breathing. When he speaks at last, his words are not encouraging.

"Welcome to hell, boy. Welcome to hell."


	11. Chapter 11

The official story, the one passed around town, is that Mr. Mellark died of a heart attack. I don't know if anyone believes it, but that's the story I'm supposed to stick to. Although in that story, I wasn't actually the one to discover the body. According to the official story, I wasn't even there at all.

Peeta insisted on that. After Haymitch's strange proclamation, the three of us stood around in sort of a strange haze, frowning at one another, at a loss for what next to do. I suddenly remembered that I had never exchanged as much as a word with Peeta Mellark before, now here I was, witness to such a terrible moment in his life. But I had witnessed a lot of terrible moments in his life. In a way, I kind of felt like I knew him. But he didn't know me, not really, not at all.

He seemed to come to the same realization at the same time.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, stepping toward me as though to usher me out. "Do you think anyone saw you?"

I shrugged, strangely nettled by his evident aversion to my presence. "Stealth wasn't the first thing on my mind."

His eyes softened as they looked over me. I was somewhat surprised by the tenderness in them, but I chalked it up to the emotion of the past hour. "Thank you."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't say anything. I just glanced once more at Mr. Mellark, still sprawled out across the floor. Peeta followed my glance, his lips tightening as he remembered his haste. "Don't tell anyone you were here. Don't tell anyone that we've spoken, that you've ever spoken to me. Okay? Promise me."

"All right."

He nodded. "Quickly, go. You can leave through the back door."

He was clearly urgent, so I didn't argue. There wasn't really any reason for me to stay, anyway. I scooped up my forgotten squirrels and hurried out the back door, as he asked.

"This is only the beginning," I just heard Haymitch say as the back door shut behind me. "You're his man now, or more will follow."

Peeta's reply was lost. Fear gripped my heart as I wondered what Haymitch meant; who he was talking about. Did he know who murdered Mr. Mellark? If not, why wasn't he racing to the Peacekeepers and demanding justice? Not that justice and Peacekeepers often go hand and hand… but I assumed they would at least do a cursory investigation on the murder of such an upstanding citizen as Mr. Mellark.

"I bet it was the Capitol," says Gale later that evening. I know that Peeta told me not to tell anyone, but Gale hardly counts. I have no secrets from him, and he has none from me. I know that he was tired after the day in the mines, but still he snuck under the fence with me, out into the woods where we have always talked so freely, where our secrets have thus far remained safe.

"Why do you think that?"

Gale grimaces. "Who else would they cover everything up for? Can you imagine what would happen if one of us committed a murder? We would be hung in the town square before the day was over."

"But what would the Capitol gain by killing Mr. Mellark?"

He starts pacing back and forth, an old agitated gesture that I realize I haven't seen in the months since we became boyfriend and girlfriend. "It must be designed to get to Peeta Mellark. I've often wondered if the Capitol was unhappy with the way that he won the Games. Some of the things he said just before he won were skating awfully close to dissent and rebellion. His refusal to kill the girl from 2. His softness for the girl from 11. I have an idea that he isn't President Snow's most favorite victor."

I shudder. "You think they killed his father because of that?"

Long, calloused fingers run distractedly through his hair. "I wouldn't put it past them."

The air around me seems to drop about ten degrees. All I can think about is Peeta, the empty look in his face as he sat beside his dead father; Haymitch's terrifying last words.

"Haymitch Abernathy said this was just the beginning."

Gale drops beside me, takes my face in his hands, forces me to look him in the eye. "Katniss, listen to me. I don't want you having any more dealings with Peeta Mellark or Haymitch Abernathy. Do you understand me? Forget that today ever happened. Do you promise?"

"Peeta made me promise the same thing," I mutter.

"Good," says Gale emphatically. "I don't want you getting tangled up into all this. If they think you're connected to Mellark, they might hurt you, too. And what would I do then?"

Explode. The thought makes my insides shrivel with fear. There is no telling what Gale might do, once his full anger is aroused. Might try to take on President Snow, himself. And that would not end well, not if today is any indication of the Capitol's reach and power.

"I promise."

Gale's eyes search mine, as though seeking assurance that my words are binding. I reach out to caress his face, trying to wipe a bit of coal dust from his cheek but only succeeding in smearing it even wider.

"Don't worry," I say.

His lips turn upward, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll stop worrying when I die."

"Well, don't do that, either," I whisper, leaning in to kiss him.

He kisses me back, and for the moment even the horrific events of the day fade as I am lost in the security of his embrace.

Yet, as we sneak back under the fence later, I can't help glancing in the direction of the Victor's Village. I can't see it from here, of course, but I wonder if Peeta is at home, and if he is alone.

There are some things a person shouldn't have to face alone.


	12. Chapter 12

As the District 12 Victors leave a few days after for Peeta's Victory Tour, I am not tested in my promises to have no dealings with them. In the districts we don't see much of the tour, maybe just a few clips in a montage and President Snow ushering the Victor into the Capitol at the end. I have never cared to see more, especially now, since every time I think of Peeta I see only his ashen, empty face as he knelt beside his lifeless father, hear only Haymitch's ominous warnings and Gale's sinister surmises.

The sight of Mr. Mellark, sprawled out across the bakery floor, continues to haunt me, and the image becomes a fixture in my already habitual nightmares about mining explosions and starving children.

"Are you all right, Katniss?" Prim asks me, the afternoon of Peeta's homecoming. We are all supposed to gather in the town square for his speech, and the Capitol has sprung for a huge party afterward. "You kept crying out in your sleep last night."

"I'm fine," I said, smoothing down her hair and straightening her skirt. "Don't worry about me."

Prim just looks at me, her big solemn eyes reproachful, and I feel in a moment how old she is getting, how much she longs for me to trust her with my problems. But before either of us can say anything, Rory and Vick waltz into the room, each talking and laughing over the other.

"C'mon, Prim, it's time to go," laughs Vick, grabbing one of her hands as Rory reaches for the other. She smiles, caught up in their joviality, and I give her a little nudge towards the door.

"I'll be along as soon as I change my clothes," I promise her. Rory is in the middle of some fantastic tale about his first kill, a squirrel, that he made last week when we were out in the woods. Prim, laughing at the story she's already heard a thousand times, allows the boys to sweep her out of the room, but her last glance over her shoulder is at me, still in the growing darkness.

I smile, hoping to put her mind at ease, but she's already gone. My mother was called to look at a sick child a few houses away and will probably be going straight to the town square afterwards. I have maybe ten or twenty minutes before I need to be there.

To tell the truth, attending the speech and the party are probably the last things in the world I want to do, and I know that Gale doesn't want me to, either. But what can either of us do? It's required for all citizens of District 12 to go, to show their support for their victor. If I didn't, the Peacekeepers would be knocking at my door in no time, a weapon pointed at my chest and probably the order for my hanging in their pocket. What other choice do I have?

In due time, I'm changed and on my way to the town square. The crowd is muttering in muted excitement. Very soon Peeta will be back in District 12, standing before us on the stage. Despite our feelings for the Capitol and for the Games, it is something to have won, for once. To look at the stage and not see the person who murdered your son and daughter, but your son, the classmate of your daughter.

Except that only one of Peeta's parents waits for him, only one can enjoy his homecoming. I stand on my tiptoes to look for Mrs. Mellark, who standing near the front of the crowd. She is dressed all in black, but otherwise her habitual withered expression is unchanged. Peeta's two older brothers stand on either side of her, looking solid and solemn and sad.

Peeta's speech, when he finally appears, is polished and charismatic and well-delivered, but his face is even more haggard and drawn than before he left. Whatever his experience in the Capitol, it didn't seem to be a good one. He leaves the stage as soon as his speech is over, hunched over like a little old man, and I don't see him again for the rest of the evening.

No one seems to particularly miss him; in any case, his absence doesn't impact the collective wonder at the spread the Capitol has provided. There's a whole table laden with all sorts of meat and vegetables, another table for bread and whole separate one for desserts. It's more food than any of us have ever seen in our lives, and it's something to watch the kids' faces light up as they realize, if just for the evening, all of that is _theirs. _

Later, fiddles are produced and the town square fills with dancing people. A festive feel pervades the air and there are smiles on nearly every face, but for some reason I can't fully enter into the fun.

It is still early yet when Gale turns to me and says, "What do you say we get out of here?"

I breathe a sigh of relief at the thought, and the two of us creep through the boisterous crowd, unnoticed by anyone. I wish that we could go hide away in the woods for a while, but that's probably not a good idea, since with all the reporters and Capitol types around, the Peacekeepers are being extra vigilant. We settle for my house, which is at least empty and quiet. I brew a bit of mint tea while Gale sits at the table, head in his hands.

"Headache?" I ask, setting a chipped mug in front of him.

He shakes his head, staring at the mug with fire in his eyes. "I hate it," he says fiercely.

"Shhh," I say, glancing around the empty house as though Peacekeepers are lying in wait. "Not here."

"It makes me sick," he continues, but lowers his voice, so low that I have to lean in close to catch his words, his fiery breath hot against my ear. If anyone walked in on us now, I suppose, they would think us in the middle of a sentimental moment, not breathing out treasonous comments about the Capitol. "What's the point of it all? Look at our bounty, citizens of District 12, bounty that we will gladly pour out on you if you continue to play by our rules, to strive for our prize? Do they think us so easily bought? _Are _we so easily bought? But what other choice do we have, but to be bought? What else is there to do?"

I don't know what to say to this, so I just wrap my hands around his, and we sit together a long time in silence. I don't know what Gale is thinking – I'm a little afraid to ask – but my mind is full of Rue, of Jessamine Taney, of the long line of tributes who have died for the Capitol's Games. And Peeta. Where is he now? Is he alone?

Over the next couple of days, I can't get him, or his father, out of my mind. I don't know why. Maybe it's because of what Gale said, or maybe it's because I know what it's like to lose a father. Maybe it's because I never paid him back what I owe him, never even told him thank you. Maybe if I had done that, I could leave him alone. But I didn't, and now I can't.

So that's why, one cold winter morning about a week later, I sneak into the Victor's Village, my breath white in the air before me, my fingers red and freezing. That's why, despite the promises I made to both him and Gale, I silently set two squirrels on his front porch and creep away. It's so early, the gift so meaningless except to someone who knew his father, that I'm sure it will pass by unnoticed by the Capitol. But I just have to do something.

A week passes, and I start at every tiny sound, jump every time that Gale says my name, terrified that he somehow found out. But nothing happens. And so, a week later, I do it again. The same gift – just two dead squirrels, left in a pillow of snow on his front porch in the soft, gray light of dawn.

I owe a debt. And until I'm sure that it's repaid… what else is there for me to do?


	13. Chapter 13

Another week passes, and then two. Before I know it, a month has passed. I continue to leave squirrels for Peeta, and no one says anything, no one seems to notice.

I am just sneaking out of the Victor's Village early one Tuesday before school when I become aware of heavy footsteps behind me. In all the weeks that I've been coming here, I've never seen anyone out and about in this part of the district, at least not this early. Catching my breath, I quicken my pace. So does the person behind me.

At least, I think wryly as I break from the path, into a copse of snowy trees off the side of the road, at least whoever it is following me is the loudest person in all of District 12. I am pretty confident in my abilities to stealthily disappear, while this person… it's like they're making an effort to step on every twig in the district.

I am just to the other end of the copse, from which it will take me only a few minutes to get to the main road, into the safety and anonymity of the town, where people have been up and busy since early this morning.

"Katniss, wait," he hisses.

I stop in my tracks. That wasn't the voice of a Peacekeeper or a Capitol spy. That was the voice of someone who I didn't even know knew my name.

"You're fast," says Peeta Mellark, hurrying to catch up with me. His blonde hair is tousled, falling over one of his deeply lined eyes as though it hasn't seen a comb for quite some time. He holds out a hand as if to keep me from leaving.

"And you're loud," I say, motioning to his snow encrusted boots.

He smiles. "I'm no hunter."

I just stop myself before I can say, "That's for sure." Instead I ask: "What do you want?"

His expression turns serious. "I thought you promised to leave me alone."

"You're the one who followed me."

This produces a deep and weary sigh, a moment of heavy silence. At last: "Katniss, you've got to stop it with these squirrels. It's not that I… I appreciate it, really I do, more than you could know. But I'm a bad person to know. I don't want you to get hurt."

"I can take care of myself."

"I know you can. But what I'm up against… Katniss, if they killed you, I'd never forgive myself."

The copse around us seems to darken. "Who?" I whisper. "The Capitol?"

He doesn't answer, just glares at the ground somewhere to the right of me.

I take a step forward, my hand reaching impulsively for his arm. He flinches and turns away, as if ashamed of my touch. "Why do they hate you?" I ask.

He laughs, a sound as bitter as the girl from 2 when he told her that she didn't have to kill him in the arena. "I don't think that hate really enters into the equation."

I take another step, around him, trying to see his face. "Peeta, you don't have to do this alone."

The copse is silent, only the sound of my breathing and his. His eyes are still on the ground, and it seems a long time before he reaches into his pocket and hands me something, a battered scrap of paper that has nevertheless been carefully folded and refolded. "I think you dropped this last time."

He pushes the paper into my bewildered hands, and then, with one last anguished look whispers, "Remember your promise," and disappears.

I look down at the coal-smeared note. The letter Gale wrote to me the morning that I discovered Mr. Mellark. I must have dropped it in the bakery. It looks considerably more tattered than it had the first time it had been in my possession. Has he been carrying it with him all this time?

My face flushes as I shove the precious note deep into my pocket. He must have read it. I am a little angry at this invasion of my privacy when I realize that, ever since this year's Reaping, I have been doing nothing but invading Peeta's privacy, me and every citizen of Panem. How much more do I know about him than he knows about me? Greater anger floods through me as I imagine how terrible it must be in the arena, with no minute that is truly your own, everything about you laid out and bare before the ever watching cameras. Peeta doesn't belong to himself anymore. He belongs to Panem, he belongs to the Games.

I stamp the ground a couple times, bits of snow and mud flying through the air around me. The action far from satisfies my anger, but it will have to do for now. I am late for school, and I have promises to keep.

I dart from the copse into the waiting town beyond.

* * *

The next month brings with it a new head Peacekeeper. I don't know what happened to Cray, and I don't miss him for his own sake, but Thread's reputation as a strict and less indulgent head spreads quickly through the district. It is with a little trepidation that I make my way to the Hob, a few days after his arrival, to cautiously trade my game.

The black market, however, seems undisturbed. People are still going about their business, albeit a little more quietly than normal. I make the trades I want and stop at Greasy Sae's for a bowl of soup.

"No ill effect so far but slicing my business clean in half," Sae grumbles as she sets the bowl in front of me. "None of the Peacekeepers dare come in anymore. Mark my words, we'll rue the day that man came to District 12."

Fear constricts my heart as I wonder: why this? Why now? Is it possible that all the years District 12 spent without a viable showing in the Hunger Games, beneath the notice of the Capitol, was in fact the only thing ensuring the governmental apathy that became our survival? We have a victor now, and a victor President Snow dislikes – is this increased scrutiny a direct effect? District 12 has been thrust into the public spotlight, and there's no going back to our old, defeated anonymity. How long will it take us to feel the sting? How will I feed my family if Thread shuts down the Hob?

Greasy Sae, maybe seeing the fear in my eyes, pats my hand. "But we'll make it through, girlie. You can mark that, too. Haven't we always?"

I try to smile, but I'm suddenly not very hungry any more. "Could you put this in a bag for me?" I ask her, pushing away the untouched bowl. "I'll take it home to Prim."

Sae agrees and I rise, taking a step backwards to steady my breath.

"Oof!" exclaims someone as I collide into them.

"Sorry!" I turn to see none other than Peeta Mellark, who looks just as surprised to see me as I him. "What are you doing here?"

He glances to each side like cornered prey, his eyes wide and frightened. Upon seeing no Peacekeepers, however, he relaxes slightly and holds up a couple bottles of white liquor.

"You drink that stuff?" I ask incredulously.

He shakes his head. "It's not for me. It's for Haymitch."

"Oh."

The two of us stand there a moment, a little awkwardly, before Greasy Sae calls out to me that my soup is ready. I turn to pay her, to gather up my things, and when I turn around again, Peeta is gone.

"Didn't know you knew him," says Greasy Sae.

"I don't," I reply savagely. "Not more than anyone else."

Sae nods, a little too wisely. "You stay safe, girlie."

"You, too," I say, reaching forward to pat her gnarled, blue-veined hand before I turn to leave.

I'm not even aware that I'm following Peeta until I realize that I'm nowhere close to my home, that I'm in a completely different part of the district. The snow lies in thick banks on either side of the narrow road, nearly taller than me in some places. Peeta stops between two particularly large banks and waits for me to catch up.

"What are you doing?" he demands once I get close enough.

"Taking a walk," I say, attempting to assume an air of casual indifference.

"Go back home, Katniss. Just leave me alone, all right?"

"I can't." The words are out of my mouth before I even know what I'm saying, and once I start I can't dam them back again. "What happens if the Hob closes, if I can't trade anymore? Whatever is happening is affecting me just as much as it is you, there's no pretending otherwise. I'm already not safe. The Capitol is already killing me. What does it matter what way they do it?"

"Why do you care one way or the other about me?" It's a genuine question, and a good one. I don't know the answer. "Go back home and take care of your family. You'll find a way to take care of them. You always have."

"Only because I had help," I say, my voice so soft that I hardly recognize it. "I don't leave debts like that unpaid."

Peeta's face contorts, whether in pain or some other emotion I can't tell. When he speaks again, his voice, too, is soft. "If you want to pay me back, take care of yourself. It's too late for me. That boy I used to be, he died in the arena. I'm nothing now but the Capitol's property. They _own _me, Katniss."

"Well, they don't own me," I declare. And before I even stop to think about what I'm doing, I'm reaching forward, pulling him into a fierce hug. He tries to push away, but I don't lessen my hold on him. "And they don't own this."

For the tiniest of moments, he actually returns my hug, his arms wrapped tightly around my back. I feel his desperation, his loneliness, his longing for something solid and steady enough to hang onto. For just the tiniest of moments. And then he breaks away, and I let him, a little embarrassed by my impetuous act.

"You can't let them see you," he pleads.

"That was just between us," I say. "That doesn't belong to anyone else, but you."

There might be tears in his eyes, but I don't stop to study them. I pick up my things, and turn to leave. "I'll see you later, Peeta."

"Later," he whispers, his voice one with the wind in my ears.


	14. Chapter 14

I'm not sure what came over me with Peeta, but I don't regret it – at least, I don't think I do. In a way, it's kind of funny. I'm the one always so scared about Gale, about what he'll say and what he'll do and how he'll get himself in trouble, and now it's me who's gone and pretty much openly defied the Capitol. I don't know what I'll tell Gale about this afternoon. I know he'll be angry with me for breaking my promise, but what else was I supposed to do?

My mind is too full to make going home, where Prim will be watching and my mother hovering, a good option, so instead I sneak back into the woods, where I can think.

It's not even ten minutes after I've snuck under the fence that I get distracted by the biggest (and most oblivious) wild turkey I've ever seen. Turkey is rare, and if I can catch this one I'm certain I'll get a very good price for it – enough to see us through a fair bit, even if Thread does close the Hob. The turkey doesn't even sense my presence, and killing it is only the work of a few minutes.

I feel pretty pleased with myself as I drag the dead turkey back underneath the fence. Who should I sell it to? I'm running through the list of possibilities in my mind, about halfway across the meadow, when a dark shadow falls over me. I look up to see the leering face of Romulus Thread, the new head Peacekeeper.

"What do you got there, girl?" he snarls.

"A… A turkey," I reply, my heart in my throat. Although we only have a half day of school on Saturday, the mine is open all day, and it's still half an hour or so before Gale will be off work. I can't call for anyone else, not Prim or my mother, because what could they do? I'm alone with my turkey, and my wits. "I was just sitting here, in the meadow, thinking, and… and I saw it waddle past. It's a huge one, isn't it?"

"How did you kill it?" he asks, taking the carcass from my hands and examining it carefully. "With your bare hands?"

"I found a stick!" I reply, my voice high and desperate in my ears.

"You killed this turkey with a stick?" He raises an eyebrow in mock admiration. "In the meadow, you say? Even though I have been supervising my men here for nearly an hour, as they worked to repair the fence that has fallen into such disrepair? There's no electricity running through it, you see."

"There isn't?" I ask, hoping my feigned surprise is good enough to fool him.

It's not.

"Men," he calls, motioning to a few Peacekeepers. "Take this young lady to the town square. There are fierce penalties for hunting."

"But I didn't – " I exclaim, struggling against the hold of the Peacekeepers. I don't know one of them, but the other, an older man by the name of Wheeler, I've traded with on occasion. He loves rabbits and could be always counted on for a fair trade. He doesn't say anything to me now, just tightens his grip on my arm as he and the other Peacekeeper half carry, half drag me into the town square.

"This is what happens to those who steal from the Capitol!" exclaims Thread as the Peacekeepers throw me roughly at the foot of a wooden pole, to which Wheeler binds my hands with a coarse rope. Thread brandishes a whip, which whistles through the air and falls across my back like fire. I cry out in agony, and Thread laughs as he sends the whip flying through the air once more.

Searing pain encompasses my world as the lashes continue to pour down on me. At some point, I think I hear some commotion, someone's voice – a familiar voice although I can't quite place it – and then the crack of the whip again, falling on someone besides me. A sharp cry tears through the air and all at once I recognize the voice of Darius, my Peacekeeper friend. Did he stand up for me? What is happening to him as a result?

I hardly have time to wonder before another lash falls on my back, more painful than all the previous lashes put together. The blood-stained dirt underneath my face goes hazy; the sounds around me begin to fade, as if I am descending deep into the cloistered darkness of the mines. Am I dying?

It seems as likely as anything…

I am just aware of the whip's ferocious snarl, of someone throwing themselves over me, their body heavy against mine, the sweat on their skin burning against my jagged wounds –

a whimper of pain escapes my lips, like a dying breath…

Darkness.


	15. Chapter 15

What comes next doesn't make very much sense. Strange glimpses of disembodied faces, meaningless snatches of garbled talk. My house, maybe. Prim's voice, but no sense in her words. Something flat underneath my stomach, something cool on my back. It doesn't do much to reduce the pain – oh, the pain! Every nerve in my body, on fire. Gale's face, bloody and furious. Maybe my mother, maybe someone else. And then, darkness. Merciful darkness.

It is early in the morning when I open my eyes and, for once, the room around me stays in one place, the objects surrounding take recognizable form. I'm lying on the kitchen table, the fire crackling on one side of me and Gale's steady breathing on the other. He has fallen asleep still sitting beside the table where I lay, one arm cushioning his head, his other hand holding mine.

"Gale," I mutter. Even the small effort of this lightly breathed word is painful.

He is awake immediately. "Oh, Catnip, what did you do?"

"I caught a turkey," I say. "You should have seen it. It was magnificent."

Despite himself, he smiles. "How do you feel?"

I shift to caress the jagged wound on his face, even as the movement sends pain searing through my matted back. "I've been better. What happened to you?"

He grimaces. "You think I was just going to sit by and watch them kill you?"

"Darius." The memory fills me with fear. "What happened to him, Gale?"

Gale glances down at our intertwined hands, his eyebrows furrowing with anger and sorrow. "I don't know. They took him away. Don't think they killed him, though."

I close my eyes, hoping to stay the tears that have risen unbidden to my eyes. Tears don't solve anything – I learned that lesson a long time ago. But everything just hurts so badly that there seems to be nothing else for it. "Why didn't he kill me?"

"It was Haymitch Abernathy who stopped him. I got there just as Darius collapsed. Thread turned his whip back on you, and that's when I jumped in front of you. Don't look at me like that, what else was I supposed to do? I guess he would've whipped me until I was unconscious, too, but then Abernathy appeared and told him he couldn't whip everyone in the District and that you had already been punished more than the law demanded. I guess Thread didn't want to take on a victor, you know?" Gale pauses, looking at me carefully. "Don't get me wrong, I'm more grateful than words can say. But, Katniss, why would Abernathy stick his neck out for you?"

I can't quite meet his gaze. "I don't know," I mutter. "He's a strange one, for sure."

Gale frowns, unconvinced. I don't blame him.

Before he can say anything else, however, Prim is awake and standing beside me. "Katniss!" she exclaims, eyes full of tears. "I was so scared!"

"I'm all right," I assure her.

"Prim has been a good nurse for you," Gale tells me. "She'll make a fine healer one of these days."

Prim blushes, but looks pleased as she stokes the fire. "Go get some rest, Gale," she orders. "I'll watch her for a while."

"Go," I urge him, wondering if he has left my side at all since the whipping. He is still wearing his coal miner's uniform, his skin streaked black with coal dust. "I'll see you soon."

He leans over to smooth the tangled hair away from my forehead, where he places a gentle kiss. I close my eyes and submit myself fully to Prim's ministrations. Gale's right – she is a good nurse. It is not long until I once more slip into a fitful sleep.

* * *

The wounds are slow to heal, and the process is more painful than I could have possibly imagined. My one stroke of luck is the huge snowstorm that descended on the district while I was unconscious, closing both school and the mines for quite some time. I am grateful to have Gale by my side as I recover, not only because his presence gives me strength, but also because I'm glad to have him continually accounted for. When he's with me, I don't have to worry that he's off trying to get revenge on Romulus Thread.

At first, the hours pass slowly and laboriously. Neither Gale nor I like being cooped up inside, and for years we have both been so consumed in providing for our families that having so much spare time is strange for both of us. Now, with my injuries and the storm raging outside, we have no other choice but to rest. We spend a lot of time sleeping, almost a luxurious amount, but my mother says I need it to heal, and I know that, as much as he tries to downplay it, the mines are sapping a lot of energy from Gale – to say nothing of the effort he puts into hunting and caring for his family in his "time off."

When we're not sleeping, we often fall to playing a game of Prim's invention. Someone starts off with the name of a plant or animal, and the next person has to think of another plant or animal that begins with the last letter of the word. I have just momentarily stymied Prim with the word _ivy_ when she pauses, staring meditatively into the fire.

"It reminds me of a song," she says at last, her voice soft as she tries to recall. "Do you remember, Katniss? The one about the lady in the tower wrapped with ivy."

I yawn. "I don't know. Maybe."

"It was a sort of lively tune. This was it, I think:

_ The lady in her ivy-wrapped tower_

_ Would admit no one else into her bower_

_ She guarded her heart, rock-hard, in a box_

_ She hid it away like a wily fox_

_ But one night while she slept, a robber crept in_

_He stole the box, and all that was within_

_The lady awoke without even a care_

_Not even noticing her heart wasn't there_

_Over weeks she went on, not even knowing_

_That her heart lined a garden now used for growing_

_Still to this day her heart lines the plot_

_And if she has noticed, I'm sure I know not."_

Both Gale and I laugh at the way Prim screws up her face as she finishes, and it feels all so strange and so right and so sad. When was the last time we sat together so easily like this, as though we had no other cares in the world? It reminds me of life before my father died, of maybe how life could be again, if we didn't live here and have to spend every moment of our existence in fear.

"You should sing more often, Miss Prim," Gale teases.

"It was just a silly song. Katniss has a nicer voice than I do." She pauses, her gaze far away and sad. "Did your dad sing, Gale?"

He shakes his head. "Some, but not that often. He could play the fiddle, though."

I look at him in interest. Although Gale and I talk about our fathers occasionally, most notably this one summer afternoon a few years ago when it all came spilling out of me like river swollen from snow, it always surprises me the things I don't know, the things that just seem to pop out of nowhere from some hidden corner of his memory.

"You should learn, too," says Prim.

"Maybe someday," he agrees.

"I wish I could hear you play," says Prim wistfully, with a sadness that I don't understand. Before she can say anything else, however, my mother calls to her from the fire, and she dutifully stands and goes to see what our mother needs.

Gale takes advantage of her vacated spot to stretch out beside me. Because we have only the two mattresses, my mother has been allowing him to share mine while Prim sleeps with her. I guess she figures that since there's only one room in our house and the four of us are always in each other's company, nothing much can happen between him and I.

"You seem to be feeling better lately," he says, lowering his voice so that only I can hear it.

"Yeah. Guess I'll be good as new pretty soon."

I expect him to smile, to say something encouraging, or at least to tease me about how I wasn't all that great to start out with. My words, however, only cause his eyebrows to furrow and his eyes to darken, as though forced to turn his mind once more to something he'd rather not.

"Katniss," he says slowly. "Haymitch Abernathy and I talked."

"Really?" My heart is suddenly in my throat, my palms sweaty at my sides. "After the whipping?"

"No. The day you woke up. He had left a note for me, asking me to meet up. The storm had let up a bit, so I trekked through the snow to see him."

"What did he want with you?" I don't want to know the answer.

Gale sighs. "He told me about the squirrels."

"Oh, that," I say, trying to make it seem as though it was nothing.

But Gale knows me better than that. "Yeah, _that_. What were you thinking? You promised me that you'd stay away from him. You promised Mellark, too, didn't you?"

"I had to do _something, _Gale. I don't know what they did to him, in Capitol, but he's facing whatever it is on his own. Whatever it is, and his dad, too. I couldn't let him stay like that, Gale. I _owe _him."

"You owe him?"

I take a deep breath and the whole story of the bread comes spilling out. Gale stays silent, listening, his face hard and intent. But I know he understands, can tell by the way he presses his lips together as my whispered fervor at last comes to an end.

Gale sighs deeply. "It won't do anyone any good if you get yourself killed," he says at last. "Abernathy seemed to think it was a distinct possibility that you might be in danger."

"I don't think the thing with Thread was because of Peeta – "

"But, in any case, it's made you an object of interest to those in charge. You're a marked woman now, Katniss. Do you think you can get away with hunting now, with trading? There's no way. Thread is going to be keeping his eye on you. And if you keep it up with this Mellark thing? You are going to have the Capitol on you for sure. You might already."

I glance at the fireplace, where my mother and Prim are chatting, almost too loudly, a little too gaily. I wonder if they know that Gale and I are having this conversation.

"Catnip, _why_? Is some burnt bread all those years ago really worthy your life?"

I can see the hurt and jealousy creasing between his eyebrows, and I wish that I had a better answer to give him than the honest one, which is that I have no idea.

So I settle for just putting my hand to his face, every inch of which is so well known and so well loved. His cheek is cold underneath the rough stubble that has accumulated over the course of my convalescence.

"What am I going to do with you, Catnip?" he asks.

I sigh. "I don't know. I'm sorry for…" I pause, not quite sure what I'm sorry for. "What do you think I should do?"

"Run away with me." The answer is firm, immediate, and I know that it is to this that this whole conversation has been leading. "You're not safe in District 12, but we can make it in the woods, you and I."

"What about our families?" Fear fills me as, for the first time, I realize what affect my actions might have on Prim, on my mother. "If you're right, and the Capitol is watching me now, then don't you think that scrutiny might turn on our families if we disappear?"

"I'm working on something that should keep them safe. All I need right now is for you to agree."

I pause, closing my eyes to hide the unbidden tears that have risen in them. In a way, it's so sudden. Leave District 12? My mother, Prim? But what else can we do? Gale and I would be running for our lives – there's no way that we could risk bringing along my family or his.

"Rory is as old now as I was when I assumed responsibility for my family," says Gale, and I know how much this is killing him, how much he is willing to sacrifice for me. "You've been teaching him everything he needs to know. In a few months, when the scrutiny dies down and the fence falls back into disrepair, he'll be able to step into my role. And Prim has her goat, and there's all the venison that we shot and salted in the beginning of autumn. They'll make it."

"Rory will have to take the tesserae. _Prim_, Gale. Prim."

Gale shuts his eyes tightly, as if trying to block out the pain of my words. But he can't, because the pain is in his heart. I know, because I feel it, too. "We made it through, didn't we, you and me? They can do it. They _have _to."

I don't reply. What is there to say?

Prim and my mother have fallen silent; the only sounds I hear are the crackling fire, the gentle click of my mother's knitting needles, the creak of the decrepit rocking chair where Prim now sits. Gale and I fall silent, too.

And outside, the snow continues to swirl around our tiny house, burying us deeper and deeper into the prison that is District 12.


	16. Chapter 16

_Thanks for all your follows, favorites, and reviews, guys! I'm really happy to know that people are reading and hopefully enjoying this. :)  
_

* * *

The storm finally passes. Gale goes back to the mines, I go back to school. I don't dare hunt, and, anyway, it's not long before the Hob goes up in a blaze that effectively wipes out the black market. If ever there was a time to run away, to try and make it outside the fence, this is it.

But still I can't bear the thought of leaving, of deserting Prim to the difficult life we leave behind, growing more difficult by the minute. She has her goat, true, but that's a small thing compared to the greater hardships she would face. With Gale no longer in the mines, and the two of us no longer hunting and trading, she will have no choice but to take the tesserae. The thought is revolting, the very antithesis of everything I've fought so hard for over the years.

"You can't hunt now, anyway," Prim whispers, her large eyes grave as we walk together to school. "Things are going to be different, whether you're here or not, and there's nothing we can do about it. All I want is for you to be safe, Katniss. If Haymitch thinks…"

She breaks off suddenly. We are in sight of the school, now in danger of being overhead. She stops, biting her bottom lip to keep from crying, and squeezes my hand tightly. "I'll be okay," she whispers.

"Hey, Prim!" one of her classmates calls. Prim puts on a smile and squeezes my hand again, and then she's off to meet her friend. I stand alone in the snow, utterly defeated. The last thing I want is to go to school. But what other choice do I have? What little protection anonymity gave me has been stripped away. I must be at pains to be the model citizen, at least until Thread forgets me or moves to his next post.

As I slip into my seat, I think over Prim's words. I don't want to admit that she might be right. If Haymitch did go out of his way to warn Gale for me… but that just opens up a new line of questions. Why _would _Haymitch Abernathy stick out his neck for me? Step in for me at the whipping? Ask to speak with Gale? I have never known him to show any interest in anyone from District 12 before.

The only explanation I can think of is that he did it on the behest of Peeta. Peeta. For the first time I wish I hadn't left him those accursed squirrels. If I had known how complicated it was going to make everything…

Instead of classes, we're assigned to spend the morning shoveling snow. We break off in pairs to various spots in the District, some of which are covered in snow deeper than I am tall. As usual, I pair off with Madge, and the two of us trudge towards a bit of road a little past the town square, dragging our heavy shovels in the snow behind us.

Our stretch of road is not residential; it only exists to connect the town square to the train depot and is now so impassable as to be deserted. Madge and I fall to quiet work. I don't know what's going on in her head, but mine is a swirl of confusion, fear, and pain.

It's been maybe an hour when Madge stops. "Is that Teacher coming up?" she asks.

I shade my eyes to get a better look, my heart sinking in my chest as I recognize the familiar figure slowly plodding toward us. "No."

If Madge recognizes the apprehension in my tone, she doesn't show it. She props her shovel up against a pile of snow and considers the approaching figure solemnly.

"Hi, Peeta," she says, once he's close enough to hear.

Peeta looks just as unhappy to see me as I am to see him. He returns Madge's greeting and I plunge my shovel fiercely into the snow. He is probably the worst possible person for me to see, at least in my current state of mind. Things were just beginning to sort of make some semblance of sense – but the sight of him muddles everything again. What is it about this guy, that gets to me this way?

"Where are you headed?" Madge asks him.

"I was just getting some air," I hear him say. My head is still bent over my furious shoveling.

"That reminds me. I have something for you. Would you wait here while I go get it?"

"I – I don't think – " Peeta stutters, but Madge is already gone, her silvery blonde hair flying out behind her as she disappears over the hill.

I focus on the old, rusty shovel in my hands, the scrape of the metal against the snow, the weight of the load as I transfer it to the small pile Madge and I started. I hope that if I just ignore him, he'll go away. It seems an eternity before he does, but finally I hear the crunch of his footsteps as he slowly begins to leave.

He only takes about five steps before I blurt out: "I'm leaving the District. Gale and I. We're running away." I don't realize until I say it that I've firmly decided on it.

For a long moment, there is silence. At last, Peeta exhales, a deep, shuddering breath of relief. "Good."

A tiny chill of irrational disappointment settles over me at his response. "You can come with us," I say. I don't know where the words come from. I've never so much as thought them before, but as soon as they spill out of my mouth, I know that I mean them.

"What would President Snow do then?" It's a genuine question, half whispered to himself. My back is still turned to him, my eyes still on the dented shovel in my hands, but I try to imagine the look on his face as he rolls over the idea in his mind. Skeptical? Frightened? Longing?

"Who cares?" I say. "Let's be done with this place. Come with us."

"With you and Gale." He sighs. "Katniss, what did I tell you? I'm not my own man anymore. I've got the whole District to think about. If one of the Victors disappeared? What do you think Snow would do to the people here? What kind of punishments would he pour out on them?"

"How could he punish them for something that's not their fault?"

There is a long silence, and then I feel his hand on my shoulder, gently turning me to look at him.

"How is your back?" he asks, his eyes tender as they study me.

"It's healing," I say, looking down at my hands, my face for some reason growing hot.

He sighs again, the weary sigh of an old man who has seen too much and now only waits to die. "Thank you for asking me to go with you, Katniss, but I can't. Don't worry about me. You don't understand how much it will help me for you to be gone, for me to know that you're safe and happy and out of harm's reach."

"The Capitol doesn't own you," I say bitterly.

"No." His voice is meditative. "I realize that now. They don't. But District 12 does. And I have to do my best for _them_. You being gone will help me do that. Go with Gale, and be happy. Do you promise?"

I can't keep back a wry smile. "You know how good I am with promises."

He smiles, too. It's the first time that I've seen such a genuine smile from him since before he left for the Games, and it changes his whole face, lights it up, makes him seem almost the boy that I remember, the boy with the bread. "Yeah, I know. But I'm counting on you to keep this one. And in return, I'll make one of my own. Your sister – I can't be directly involved with her, or it might bring her danger, too. But I'll do what I can, in roundabout ways, to make sure that she's taken care of. She won't starve. And she won't have to take the tesserae."

I stare at him, wondering how he could have known about this, the deepest fear in my heart. I want to speak, to tell him thank you at least, but no words come out. I simply stare at my feet, growing blurry with tears, and take his hands in my own. A squeeze is all I can manage – a paltry gesture, to show my gratefulness. But it will have to do.

"Don't take this the wrong way or anything," says Peeta, "but I hope never to see you again."

He returns my squeeze and for a moment, we stand together on the snowy hill, as one. Then he kisses my forehead and, before I can say anything more, is gone.


	17. Chapter 17

_Although there are definitely romantic elements to this story, I don't really think of it as a romance. A lot is going to happen from here on out, and I'm excited about the ways that _all_ the relationships in this story are going to develop. My primary interest isn't really in seeing two characters (whoever they are) get together. Although there's nothing wrong with that, I hope that this story is a little broader in scope. I love exploring relationships of all kinds - romantic, family, and especially friendship. And personally, I'd prefer a story about friendship over a story about romance any day. So sorry if anyone is disappointed!_

* * *

The Quarter Quell announcement seals the deal.

"As a reminder that these Games touch the heart of every woman and man," reads President Snow on live TV, "the tributes will be drawn from all citizens of the Districts, old or young, Victor or not."

Gale. At nineteen, he was supposed to be free from the threat of the Reaping. He was supposed to be safe. I thought he was beyond that danger, that there was no chance of him being taken from me in that way again.

I guess I thought wrong.

"Two weeks," he mutters to me as we walk home. The crowd around us is silent, disbelieving. "Be ready to go in two weeks."

The plans slowly begin to take shape. In order that we not be missed in the District, that scrutiny doesn't fall on our family because of our absence, Gale is working with his friend from the mine to arrange a small fire. The plan is to consume my house with flames, to make everyone believe that Gale and I died in the fire. It sounds like a dangerous plan to me, with a lot of things that could go wrong, the way the houses in the Seam are so close together and so saturated with coal dust.

"Zane's an expert with explosives and fire," Gale assures me late one night, as we sit together at his kitchen table, the kids sleeping nearby. "He'll contain it so that it doesn't spread. And your mother and Prim can live with my family. My mother really wants them to."

To say nothing of the fact that if Peeta has promised to take care of Prim, this living arrangement will probably see to the needs of Gale's family, as well. I feel irrationally sure that Peeta's promise extended to them anyway, but if they all live in the same house, now it must.

"I'm sure my mother wouldn't mind the company," I say. And I realize that's another thing I'm scared of, Prim having to take responsibility for my mother if she retreats from the world again. I wonder if Gale was thinking about this when he devised his plan. Now, whatever happens, Prim won't be alone.

Gale clears his throat. I glance up at him, surprised to see that he's looking a little embarrassed. "There's, uh, one other thing that my mother talked to me about, something that both she and your mom want before we go."

"Yeah?"

"The chances are that we'll never see them again, you know? There's a lot in our lives that they're going to miss. So they asked me if we wouldn't think about getting married, here, in the District, before we leave. So that they could be a part of it. The last thing about us they're a part of."

I sit back in my chair, stunned by the request. Married? I guess by going off with Gale, I'm as good as tying my fate to his, because if we succeed, we'll be hidden so far north, so deep in the woods, that the chances of ever even seeing any one else is slim. (If we're lucky.) But still, the old fear chafes in me at the word. Marriage, here, in the District? Where the Capitol would own it, would own any children that it produced?

"We're leaving the District," says Gale, as though reading my thoughts. "Two weeks, Katniss, that's it. Two weeks left in this place, and then we're done with it forever."

I glance at Rory and Vick, asleep on a mattress in front of the fire, Posy curled up beside her mother, who is doing the mending. I put myself in their shoes, in Prim's. What they are giving up in letting us go is huge. If this really is the only thing they are asking in return, how can I not oblige them?

Besides, two weeks. Two weeks and we're gone.

"Okay," I agree.

There's nothing official about the marriage. Usually, a couple goes to the Justice Building to register and to be assigned a new house, but since I'm underage and we don't want a house anyway, that's out of the question. My family and his just gather together at my house one freezing Sunday evening, and we make our promises in front of them, and do the toasting as is our District tradition. And then our two families sit down to a meal – a very meager meal, since we're still subsisting mainly off of the venison that Gale and I killed and salted last autumn, and the rations have to last our family far after we leave.

But still, it is nice to sit together, to be able to share this with them, maybe the last common point in our lives. The conversation around the table is lively, and there is a lot of joking, and even some singing. No one mentions us leaving, and it is quite late by the time that Hazelle swoops us a sleeping Posy and says that they ought to be going. Everyone hugs everyone else, and there are tears in Prim's eyes and in my mother's, and then they are all gone, my mother and Prim spending the night at the Hawthorne's.

"One week," says Gale, crouching down to stoke the dying fire. "One week more."

I crouch down beside him, laying my head on his shoulder. "Are we doing the right thing?"

He sighs. "I don't know."

For some reason this answer is more reassuring than a confident yes would have been. He puts an arm around me and together we sit, watching the fire and pretending that if we squint, we can see in it the scenes of freedom that will be our future.

* * *

The next week passes quickly. I still have to go to school and Gale still has to go to the mines, keeping up appearances until the last possible moment. The fire is planned for early Saturday morning, while it's still dark. After that, we will lay low at Zane's house for maybe another week, then take advantage of the fifteen minutes a day that the electricity goes out to sneak out under the fence. And then we'll be in the woods. We'll be free.

It's hard to concentrate at school, with my mind so full of Gale and of escape. No one notices my distraction, except maybe Madge, and if she does, she doesn't say anything.

We are just leaving school on Friday afternoon – the day before Gale and I are going to stage our deaths – when the sound of an explosion rips through the air, the ground shakes underneath us. Madge and I stare at each other with wide eyes, the same thought in both of our minds.

"The mines," I manage through lips that have just gone colder than ice. We take off running.

The scene is like that of my nightmares, the nightmares of losing my father. Chaos and coal dust swirl in the air, cries of panic and pain from men and women frantically working to pull workers from the small shaft. Injured miners are everywhere, blood and ash smearing their bodies, and I gag as I trip over a dead body, laid out in the sunlight denied to him in death.

I fall to my knees, only satisfying myself that this corpse is not Gale before I'm up and racing towards the mine opening.

"Get back, girl," someone calls. Madge grabs my arm, pulls me backwards, back towards a small group of injured miners several feet away.

"Catnip!"

It's him, he's still alive. Blood gushes from one leg, still in one piece but just barely. I throw my arms around his neck, sobbing hysterically. "I thought you were dead!"

"Not yet," he says, holding me tightly.

"We need to take care of your leg," I say, once the worst of my tears have subsided. "Let's get home, my mother will see to it."

Gale's voice is pained. "I can't walk, Catnip."

"Then I'll carry you. Come on."

Between Madge and me, we manage to pull him to his feet, to support him between us. The trek home is long and laborious. We have to stop at least twice for him to retch, the bile dark and unnatural. My mother's face is ashen as we at last enter my house; her hands shake as we lay Gale out for her examination. I know this is bringing up terrible memories for her. I wonder how long she'll be able to hold on. It better be long enough for her to heal Gale.

Aided by Prim, she cleans and binds the wound, and then the two of them hurry away, to offer their assistance to the other injured. I sit by Gale's side, holding his hand while Madge prepares us all some tea.

"You'll be as good as new in no time," I assure him.

His face creases with pain. "Not in a week. Not in a lot of weeks."

"It's okay," I say, although fear constricts my heart, barely letting me get the words out.

"No." He struggles to sit up, but just falls back, defeated, to the table. "You have to go. By yourself. Tomorrow. I'll follow when I can."

"That's ridiculous. We go together, or not at all."

"Katniss – "

"Together or not at all," I repeat fiercely.

He can't argue, because Madge has just returned with the tea. He glares at me as I accept my mug and I glare right back at him. Together or not at all. He's crazy if he thinks I'd just leave him, especially with the Reaping looming up ahead.

"You're so lucky it was just your leg, Gale," breathes Madge.

"Yeah," he replies bitterly. "Lucky."

Luck has never been our strong suit.


	18. Chapter 18

Gale heals, slowly but surely. Not fast enough, though. The Reaping looms over us, over every citizen of the District. As winter melts into spring and spring passes into summer, the anxiety and fear in the air is palpable.

It doesn't help that, now that the woods are off limits, food is scarce. Our carefully stocked store dwindles to nothing; we subsist mainly on tesserae bread and grass from the meadow. I itch to sneak under the fence, to feel the weight of my bow in my hands once more, the release of the arrow leaving its shaft, but that is not an option, not if I value my life. If it were not for the packages we receive at the beginning each month from the Capitol, our district prize for Peeta winning the Games, we would surely starve to death. As it is, there are nights I go to bed with a far too familiar ache in my empty stomach.

It seems like things can't get any worse, but then they do. It's only a week before the Reaping, a sweltering summer afternoon, when my worst suspicions, my dreadest fears, are confirmed. I am pregnant.

At first, I can't even comprehend it. But then, slowly, understanding kindles rage, and I find myself grabbing everything within reach and hurtling it across the room, the more damage done to our small house the better. I can't do any more damage to anything than I have already done. I contemplate marching outside, trying right then and there to escape. What could happen to me? I could get fried on the fence, or caught and brought to Thread, executed by firing squad. I deserve both fates, I deserve worse. What have I done? I'm wretched, terrible; how could I have allowed myself for one minute to be lulled into false security, to for one second let down my defenses? They were there for good reason. How could I have been so foolish?

I don't tell anyone, no one but my mother, who was there with me, and Gale. His leg has only recently healed to the point that he can stand, take a few unsteady steps. At my news his face drains of color and I see my anger, my helplessness, mirrored in his eyes.

"Tonight," he says. "We leave tonight."

"There's guards on the fence twenty-four seven. How are we going to do that?"

"We'll find a way."

But we don't. We run through every possibility, a million times over, but there's no way out. Security has been heightened exponentially, probably because of the upcoming Reaping and the growing sense of anxiety in the district. Fear can keep people down, but sometimes it can also prompt them to astonishing acts of desperation. Only last week, a man was shot by Peacekeepers as he attempted to escape.

And so, on Reaping day, we take our places among the citizens of District 12, waiting in fear for our names to be drawn.

Peeta takes his place, too, on the stage. Not even he is safe – wasn't it announced that even Victors could be drawn in this most miserable Reaping? Nevertheless, I don't think it is entirely for himself that he looks so harried, that he stares out so unhappily into the crowd, that such anguish crosses his eyes as they seek out mine.

The Reaping begins.

"Ladies first," chirps Effie Trinket, reaching into the bowl with fingernails painted orange and black. They look like deformed bumblebees.

I catch my breath as she slowly unfolds the paper. The odds are much smaller that I'll be drawn, with all of the District now in the drawing. It won't be me. It can't be me.

_Please, not me. _

Her voice resounds through the town square. "Katniss Everdeen."

So much for the odds.

My feet feel like lead as I drag myself to the stage. Effie Trinket smiles widely at me, her face a pasty white, her lips and hair an outrageous orange. "Congratulations, Katniss Everdeen!"

I don't reply. My hands are clutching my stomach, and it's all I can do to keep from throwing up on the stage. I glance at Peeta, but he is not looking at me. Maybe he can't bring himself to meet my gaze. I can't even think of looking out into the audience for Gale, not if I want to make it through the next few minutes without hysterics.

"Now, for the men." Effie Trinket can't keep the bounce out of her step as she walks to the other bowl, reaches in for the name. She takes it out and unfolds it, a frown passing over her face for just one moment before reading it out loud. It is a moment in which I am certain that I am going to pass out, right there on the stage. It can't be Gale, it can't be Gale…

It's not.

"Whit Mellark," reads Effie Trinket slowly.

As Peeta's older brother slowly clambers to the stage, I understand. This was no random drawing. The Capitol has determined that, for whatever reason, Peeta must be punished, and what more cruel punishment could they devise than this? Only one person can win the Games. Who will Peeta choose to save? The girl who so openly defied the Capitol in his defense, the one who might be his only friend in the district? Or his brother, his own flesh and blood?

"Well," says Effie Trinket, with a little less enthusiasm than customary. "This is the moment when, traditionally, we ask if there are any volunteers."

I close my eyes, knowing deep in my heart what is going to happen next and wishing with every bone in my body that I can keep it from transpiring. But when I open my eyes, Gale is lumbering forward, limping up the stairs with fierce determination. "I volunteer," he growls. "I volunteer as tribute."

Effie picks up a little at this. District 12 has never had a volunteer before, and you can tell that she's relishing that fact that she was emceeing on this fateful occasion.

"Wonderful!" she beams, only faltering a little as Gale turns the force of his angry glare on her. "What is your name?"

His eyes are now only for me. "Gale. Gale Hawthorne."

"Well, Gale, welcome to the Games! You do your district a great honor." She is practically shaking with excitement. "Will the two tributes now shake hands?"

The crowd as silent as death as Gale and I stand opposite to one another on stage. I stare into his slate gray eyes, brimming with fury and sorrow, and it's all I can do to keep from breaking down. _Why? _I ask him silently.

His eyes tell me the answer. I can't bring myself to look into them anymore.

Effie Trinket clears her throat. "Would the tributes please shake hands?"

I thrust out my hand, my eyes watering as I stare at a plank of wood somewhere behind his left leg. He takes it, his familiar warmth so incongruous with the surreal terror of our situation. Effie Trinket breathes a sigh of relief, and says a few more things that I don't hear.

And then it's over. The Reaping. My life. Gale's life. The life of our child. All over. Done.

How could I ever have been so foolish as to think that we had a chance?


	19. Chapter 19

_I don't know if 'effing' is considered a bad word or not? I can't always tell about these things... personally, nothing really bothers me except when people take God's name in vain... so sorry if you are offended! I initially used the stronger term, and then spent nearly a day trying to figure out if there was anything else I could use instead... and that's the best I could come up with. Everything else made Peeta sound like a deranged valley girl, haha. So not what I was going for.  
_

* * *

In a way, I am grateful for the months and I Gale spent preparing for our escape. Even if it came to nothing, it at least gives me a little comfort to know that Prim and my mother are somewhat prepared for my absence. Yes, it will be difficult for them to watch the Games, and yes, they will miss me. But they have been equipping themselves for a similar eventuality, and I still have Peeta's promise to take care of them. I'm assuming that it still stands, that he won't go back on it once I'm dead. I don't think he will.

Saying good-bye to my family is hard. I am given a room in the Justice Building for final farewells, and Prim is the first one through the door, her pale cheeks soaked with tears. She flings herself into my arms and for a moment I just hold her, wishing that there was some way that my going to the Capitol could ensure that she never would have to.

"You'll be okay," I tell her, kissing the top of her golden head. "You have your goat, and once things calm down a little here, Rory will be able to take over the hunting. Remember what I said about not taking the tesserae. Help will come when you need it, I promise."

She sniffs and holds me tighter. I look over her, at my mother, who is ashen faced, a living ghost.

"I should have volunteered for you," she whispers. "I've lived too long for my liking, but you…" She pauses, her face contorting in pain. "Gale, before I could say anything… oh, Katniss, how can you ever forgive me?"

I search her face. The truth is, I'm not really a forgiving sort of person. It's taken me a long time to even stop being angry with her, for how she abandoned us after my father's death. But maybe that's not fair. Simply being a mother doesn't make you infallible, impenetrable, unbreakable. I can't say that I've done very well by my own child, who is now slated to death because of its mother – its fallible, vulnerable, utterly breakable mother. It makes me shudder to think what accusations he or she could assail me with.

I reach out to grab her hand. "Take care of Prim. She needs you."

My mother squeezes my hand, and I hold on to it, hold on to Prim, until the Peacekeepers come to take them away. No more words pass between us; there's nothing more for us to say. They can't tell me to fight, to try to come back, because they know too well the price that would be demanded for that. And they love Gale, too.

No matter what happens, these Games are going to be terrible.

Madge comes in next. This surprises me a little, but not as much as her marching up to me and pinning something to my blouse without a word.

"What is it?" I ask.

"You get to carry a district token into the arena with you," she replies. "This was my aunt's. Would you please wear it for me? For us?"

I glance down at the golden pin. A mockingjay.

"Okay," I say.

As no one else is waiting to see me, Effie Trinket comes by to escort Gale and I to the train. It is a silent ride to the station. There are a million things that I want to say to Gale, who sits only two feet away from me in the backseat, but they will have to wait until we are alone – a circumstance that, at the moment, doesn't look promising. The train station is milling with reporters, all eager to take our pictures and to shove microphones in our faces, and once we get inside the train, there's still Effie. She talks and talks as she leads us through the various compartments, all richly paneled and furnished with luxuries that, if sold, could feed my family for years.

There are two different rooms set apart for our use. We drop Gale off at his first, then Effie leads me a little ways further to the room reserved for me. My first thought, once she finally leaves, is to go find Gale, but once I sit down on the bed I am overcome by a wave of weariness, and the next thing I know I am blinking to the gentle shaking of a brown-haired servant, evidently sent to wake me.

Still yawning, I follow the servant to the dining car, where the others are already sitting around a table laden with food. I slip into the empty seat next to Gale, across from Haymitch, who has apparently eschewed the meal in favor of a tumbler of a strong-smelling, amber liquid.

"I know this must be very overwhelming for you," Effie Trinket says, addressing me with what I can only assume she thinks is a kind, sympathetic manner. It sounds more as though she's trying to talk to a particularly slow-witted five year old. "Your surroundings must be very different from what you're used to in District 12."

I don't respond, and neither does anyone else. Haymitch just takes a meditative sip of his drink while Peeta continues staring darkly at his plate and Gale, scowling a little, starts piling up my plate with all manner of delicious smelling food.

Effie is undaunted. She takes out a piece of paper and smoothes it out on the table. "Now. We will arrive in the Capitol late tomorrow morning. That gives you some time after the Reaping recap, and also tomorrow morning, to begin discussing strategies with your mentors, if you wish."

"There's just one strategy," growls Gale. "Katniss wins."

"Now, Gale," says Effie, that ghastly pumpkin smile still plastered across her face, "that's hardly the spirit of the Games! You have a chance too, you know."

He plunges the knife in his hands into the table. "One strategy. My wife wins."

"Y – your wife?" Effie stutters, looking from him to me with wide eyes. "Why, I never! Haymitch!"

She turns to him as though he is singularly responsible. Haymitch knocks back a fierce gulp of liquor, banging his empty glass against the table with perhaps a little more force than necessary.

"Anything else you'd like to share?" he asks Gale, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Gale is undaunted. "Katniss wins. The baby lives. End of story."

This is too much for Effie, who flings her hands up in the air and dissolves into a minor case of hysterics.

"Baby?" Peeta rises, his face whiter than the fine linen that drapes the table. "Are you serious? Are you _effing serious_? Didn't we tell you that she was already in danger? And you thought _that _was the best way to keep her safe?"

"And just why was she in danger in the first place?" Gale is shouting now, rolling up his sleeves and advancing on Peeta as though to hit him. I call Gale's name, leap up to grab his shoulders, to try and hold him back. "Whose fault was that?"

"Enough," commands Haymitch, his voice unexpectedly authoritative. "This situation is complicated enough without us at each other's throats. We all need to remember who the real enemy is here."

Gale and Peeta continue to glare at one another – Gale's body tense beneath my hands, Peeta still braced for a fight. Then, slowly, they back away, and sink down into their respective seats at the table, where Effie has already collapsed in shock.

"We certainly have our work cut out for us this year," muses Haymitch, calmly pouring some more of the amber liquid into his tumbler. "Any thoughts, sweetheart?" he addresses me, the endearment snide on his tongue.

I look from Gale to Peeta, both still glowering at one another over the disrupted meal. "Stop talking about me like I'm not here, like I need either of you to keep me safe, or to take the blame. It's my fault, all of it. I should have listened to the both of you, and kept well enough alone. I should have run when I had the chance. But I didn't, and here we are, and it doesn't help anything for you to kill each other."

If this speech has affected them, I don't know it. I'm currently too angry to look at either one of them.

"I'm going back to bed," I say, rising. "Good night."

And before anyone can protest, I grab my plate of food with both hands, and am gone.


	20. Chapter 20

_My apologies to Dylan Thomas for stealing his line. :)_

* * *

I eat alone in my room. Maybe they would have taken me more seriously if I had left the food behind, but I'm starving, and when will I ever get the chance to eat like this again? The meal, even through my anger, is stellar, and I'm considering sneaking back into the dining car for more when there's a loud rapping at my door.

I ignore it, and concentrate instead on licking the last remnants of sauce from my plate. The rapping continues, growing steadily more violent.

"Go away," I call.

"I'm not going anywhere until you let me in." It's Gale, of course. Who else would be so infuriatingly insolent?

"Have fun sleeping in the hall."

"Katniss, let me in."

The plate is now completely clean. I set it on the low nightstand before standing, stretching, and strolling over to the door. "Why should I?"

"_Please_, Catnip."

I sigh and slowly turn the lock. The door falls open to reveal him standing impatiently in the doorway, and I give an involuntary sigh of relief as his familiar woodsy scent wafts toward me. "Come in, then," I say. "But don't think I've forgiven you."

"Forgiven me for what?" he asks, his gray eyes flashing, challenging. "Just what is it you're angry about?"

"What am I _not _angry about?" I demand, whirling away from him, wishing I had something to throw at his head. "Is there a single thing that's happened today that I don't have cause to be furious over?"

"Come on, Katniss. You and Whit Mellark? Like I was going to let that happen? Peeta would have had no choice but to put all his energies into saving his brother. This way, there are no divided loyalties. All of the sponsors, all of the gifts, will be yours."

The anguish in his voice recalls his own brothers, and how heartbroken they must now be for him. I want to cry, but I force myself to keep the tears in. "What about _your _family?" I insist instead.

He gives a mirthless smile as he pulls me toward him. "You've always been dense about these things, Catnip, but I thought even you would understand that." He pushes a strand of loose hair away from my eyes, his strong, scarred hands so tender and gentle as they brush my skin. "You're my family, too. You and this baby. And you're going to make it back to District 12, the both of you."

I put my hand to his face, a face that I know better than my own and love in this moment more than I could have ever thought it possible to love. And, yet, the loving breaks my heart, and there are hot tears in my eyes as I draw down his head, as our lips meet. His kiss burns through me like fire, and as we melt into one another our tiny flames become one, raging into the dying of the light, into the descending darkness.

* * *

Gale manages to find sleep, but it squarely evades me. Maybe it's because of our situation, because of all the fears and worries that gnaw at my mind, or maybe it's just that I'm hungry. Even though I've eaten more for dinner than I usually do in a day, the rumbling in my stomach is the thing I'm most conscious of as I lay, unsleeping, in bed.

At last I decide that, as Gale is determined to give his life for our child, I might as well play my part and make sure that it stays healthy. I never would have been able to provide it this caliber of food in the district, that's for sure.

I slip out of bed as quietly as I can, so as not to wake Gale, and pull on a robe. The corridor is dark, empty. The train squeaks and rattles a little as it races over the tracks, but otherwise the hallway is completely silent, too.

I am just wondering if they leave food lying out, or if I'll have to find my way into the kitchen, when I come into the dining car and realize that there's someone already there. At first, I think it's Haymitch – something about the defeated slump in his back as he slouches over the table, the careless clink of the glass against the shiny mahogany surface. But, no, I realize, the man sitting at the table is blonde and fair, not dark and swarthy like the Seam-bred Haymitch Abernathy.

Peeta.

For a moment, I am frozen in spot, transfixed by the unexpected misery in his bearing. I know that every time I've seen him, he's looked worse, but this – I am about to back away, feeling as though I have trespassed on some inviolably private tragedy, when he sees me and motions for me to come join him.

"I thought you said the liquor wasn't for you," I say, taking the offered seat with some hesitation.

He grins. "Just milk, don't worry. Effie says that hot milk helps you sleep."

"You, too?"

He sighs. "Yeah. Me too."

We sit together in silence for several minutes, only the gentle sway of the train between us.

"Do you want something?" he asks finally. "Something to eat? To drink?"

"Maybe some milk," I say.

Peeta motions to one of the servants, a youngish woman I hadn't even noticed. He mutters something to her, and she disappears, only to reappear a moment later with a tray laden with a silver pitcher, glasses, and a few covered dishes.

"You didn't eat very much for dinner," Peeta explains, pushing the dishes toward me. "You've got to keep your strength up. You know, eating for two and all that."

"Yeah," I say, suddenly, inexplicably, embarrassed. I wonder what Peeta makes of this whole thing… his brother, me and Gale, the baby. Does he hate me for what I've done, for so carelessly creating a life marked only for destruction? At the very least, he must resent me for making his job more complicated. I don't envy him his responsibility, being a mentor… although, if I do make it through the Games, that's exactly the responsibility I'll be forced to assume. I feel sick to my stomach as I imagine Peeta and I, sitting in this same car one year from now, two new tributes under our care.

"When did it happen?" asks Peeta. "I mean, you and Gale getting married."

I pause, taking a spoonful from a rice dish and chewing it carefully before answering.

"Just before we were about to leave. Our mothers wanted it. I thought, since we were so close to being gone, it would be all right. But then there was the mining accident, and Thread was tightening security, and…" I gulp down some scalding hot milk. "We didn't make it."

"It's not your fault." Peeta's voice is gentle. "How could you have foreseen that? You couldn't have."

"I got overconfident. I let down my guard, too soon. It's my fault." I push the dish away, suddenly not very hungry any more.

"Well, it's Gale's fault, too. And mine," he adds hurriedly, cutting off the angry words on my lips. "We're all at fault, and none of us are. In any case, it doesn't matter anymore. What matters is what we do from here on out."

"And what is that?"

Peeta gives a tight grin, his blue eyes suddenly hard and unyielding. "We fight."


End file.
